


The Outcome (and it's wrong)

by EvilPeaches



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Dark, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, Humiliation, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, Public Sex, Rimming, Self-Hatred, The Dreadfort, Theon Doesn't Know When to Quit, Topping from the Bottom, Trash Talking Your Enemy, non graphic torture, noncon, season 3 timeframe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-01-13 12:23:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18468898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilPeaches/pseuds/EvilPeaches
Summary: He’s been many things. A prince. Handsome. Arrogant. A careless womanizer. A right prick.Theon's now a captive. A ruined thing in the dark of the Dreadfort.Somewhere along this stream of being, Theon has becomehisand it’s something neither bastard nor slave wanted.





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I own nothing. All characters & Game of Thrones belong to George R. R. Martin.
> 
>  **AN:** This story is rough, but it may actually be my favorite so far that I have written of these two. Be warned. There is noncon in this story, so if that is a trigger, run far away! 
> 
> I really wanted to examine Theon first being a captive, because Theon is an arrogant prick. I truly think the show played down how much of a handful his ass would have been. Obviously, we have no idea how he was broken down in the books either (I mean we know torture was involved, but how long and how, details!)...we just see the outcome of his torture...no pun intended.

It’s an exclusive club, Theon ponders. Being tortured for days, that is.

He’s known pain in his life. He’s lost family. He’s been abandoned. He’s had his arse beat for being a right awful young boy in Ned Stark’s honored house. Theon’s got enough emotional scars to fill Ironman’s Bay, but this is something far beyond his worst nightmares.

Theon loathes the young man standing in front of him, standing there nice as you please with a flaying knife in hand. The casual, even tone as he pontificates. Theon thinks his tormentor enjoys hearing himself talk. The rise and fall of his voice grates on Theon’s nerves.

Theon always liked listening to himself, he can recognize the trait in others.

Pale grey eyes pin him to the saltire. He’s got this sharp grin that morphs into place without warning.  Theon hates and hates, because he shared all of his painful secrets when he had thought this man was his ally, a friend. Theon has never called himself naïve, but he certainly never expected this slight man to tie him up and start removing pieces of Theon without blinking an eye.

Theon’s always been too eager to find affection and belonging. The whores that Theon paid were always willing to play along; Theon loved that. Never you mind that he had _paid_ them. Never you mind that they didn’t always enjoy him, but some did enjoy his body.

This time, he’s made a grave error. Theon tried to see belonging, understanding even, in someone who viewed his sentiments as a game. Oh, how this bastard must have laughed and sneered about Theon’s moment of weakness in the forest. His worries about belonging. Being a Greyjoy lost among the Stark’s.

Theon’s chest burns with the thought, throat tight with anger.

This man had seen a piece of Theon’s soul, even before the flaying started. As a result, Theon feels a great sense of shame and fury, knowing he told something so personal to someone who wished him ill. He wants to crush that stupid grin into nothing, he wants to grab that knife and shove it into those grey eyes repeatedly.

As if bored of the sound of his own voice, his captor stops talking quite suddenly and saunters closer to where Theon is strung up. Theon can smell the forest on him, he’s so close. He’s got this square face, his captor, and a slight, unassuming frame accompanied by a razorblade for a tongue.

Ice cold eyes, as harsh as a barren wasteland, framed by lashes dark as a raven’s wing. A touch as unforgiving as the sea consumed by a storm.

His tormentor stares into him, eyes half-mast. He takes in the expression on Theon’s face. “You are a prideful piece of nothing, aren’t you?”

 _I’m not nothing,_ Theon thinks furiously, _I’ll never be nothing_. “I’m a Prince of the Iron Islands, you have no right-”

The backhand is hard enough to split Theon’s lip. The slight bastard with his contemptible pale fucking eyes examines the red of Theon’s blood on his hand. His gaze rests there briefly before flickering back to meet Theon’s defiant stare. In a low, even tone, his captor says, “Continue to bore me with those words and see what I do.”

Theon spits at him, watches as it lands on his pale cheek. The other man blinks carefully, eyes going colder than the North itself. A sneer twists his lips as he grabs Theon’s face hard, gripping his jaw in a bruising hold. With an ugly look shaping his face, the other man pointedly spits into Theon’s mouth, forced open by his hand.

Disgust rolls through Theon in a coiling mess, his throat tightening with bile as he gags, spluttering. He yanks his head out of that awful grasp, repulsed. He wants that small, nauseating piece of his captor out of him. His spit is yet another invasion of his person, an affront to his very being.

The torturer steps away from him, absently wiping Theon’s spittle from his face. Flicks his hands. “You are no Prince here.”

“Why are you doing this? Why am I here?” Deep down, Theon is afraid Robb has done this to him. He fears that Robb set one of his bannermen after him to torture him for his brothers, the brothers that Theon never touched, never laid a hand on.

He could never hurt Bran or Rickon. Never. How could Robb even imagine he could do something like that to those boys? They were like younger brothers to him-

Visceral pain laces through his heart at the thought. No, Rickon and Bran were never his brothers. Theon’s brothers are dead, his real ones, his Greyjoy kin. No matter how he loved the Stark family, he would never be one of them.

Which is why he is torn between hate and love, a never-ending circle of confusing emotion.

He’s always been lost, but never as lost as he is now.

As if sensing Theon’s inner agony, his captor smiles beatifically, as if feeding on his misery, lusting for it. “Do you want to play a game?”

 _I don’t really have a choice, do I?_ Theon muses with twisting rage. He would crush this whoreson, if only he wasn’t strung up.

He makes Theon guess all the reasons _why,_ but his cruel grin only gets wider with every answer that Theon provides. Each answer only offers more insight into Theon’s damaged psyche and the taste of it is wine on his poisoned tongue.

It’s a shame really; Theon still operates under the impression that who he is will set him free.

“You’re here because I want you to be. And when I’m done with you, even you won’t recognize yourself.”

He carves into Theon, drinking in his screams as if they are part of a delicate vintage. The bastard strips away flesh from muscle and bone, the same way he strips away all of what Theon has made of himself, all the shields and guards he has erected through the years around his soul.

As parts of Theon’s flesh drop to the stone floor with a sickening splat, Theon groans in sheer agony. Bile heaves out of his stomach, up through his throat. His spits it onto the floor, the taste acrid on his tongue. Hoarsely, Theon says, “I’m going to tear your liver out with my teeth when I get down from this fucking rack.”

With bloodied fingers, the other man brushes hair from Theon’s forehead gently. So gently. A contradiction to the blade still clutched in his other hand.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” the bastard whispers.  

 

* * *

 

It takes time, but Theon slowly pieces it together. He slowly finds out.

His captor is _actually_ a bastard. Not because Theon loathes him to his rotten core, but because his name is Ramsay Snow.

Theon also learns never to call him that. Snow, that is.

Ramsay Snow is part of the family Bolton and the flayed man is their house sigil. Theon should have known; perhaps he wouldn’t have lost another finger.

Ramsay smirks a little, glittering eyes pinned to Theon’s mutilated hand. “You’re a slow learner. That’s okay. I have time to teach you. You’re important to the war effort, we need you!”

Then he laughs and Theon puts it together that the last bit is a lie.

No one needs Theon; no one ever has. For as long as he can remember he has always been a drifter. When his true brothers died, he had been traded away to the cold, strange North. Not his sister, no she was too important to his father.

His father traded Theon. Gave him up to be a prisoner and forgot all about him.

It pains him to think of how he must have been a burden to the Stark’s. The arrogant, prideful Greyjoy boy whoring around the village, causing all sorts of embarrassment. Catelyn Stark must have loathed having to host him in her home, a disgusting example for her own sons and daughters.

“My…my father. He will have my sister come for me. You will pay for this,” Theon says, though there is little fire in his words.

Ramsay examines Theon with a knowing look, the look that makes Theon want to crawl away and hide from the knowledge there. Blinking away his thoughts, the bastard shrugs his shoulder’s slightly, giving Theon a dismissive expression. “I wouldn’t hold out for your father, if I were you. But, wait all you like. I care not.”

Then those sharp teeth take over his grin as he laughs. Theon knows and Ramsay knows; Balon Greyjoy isn’t going to save his only living son. Theon has been dead to him since the day he sent him away.

 

* * *

 

There are certain things that Theon Greyjoy, Prince of the Iron Islands, is known for. He’s a handsome son of a bitch. An arrogant one with a sarcastic, asshole sense of humor. He’s quite insufferable, to be frank.

He loves archery, loves the pull of the string in his grip, the feel of the wind in his hair as he scopes out his target beyond.

He also likes whores. Loves them, in fact. Well, he doesn’t love _them_ , that would be stupid; he loves how they make him feel.

Theon Greyjoy always liked how he could treat them like nothing, like they were less than him. He even believed that they were lesser and it boosted his own shattered sense of self. Now though, he wonders if this is how those whores felt. His torturer has spent countless days and nights with him and the young man looks at him in a way that makes him feel naked, like every filthy piece of himself is on display.

Ramsay views him as an object and little more. His screams and his pleadings fall on ears that gleefully listen to his brokenness. Theon’s pain and suffering mean nothing to the other man; he is barely human to him. He is this thing that Ramsay must break, this thing that he harms simply because he can.

He’s a boy with a toy and no one can convince Theon of anything else.

Under that black hair and those raven wing lashes lies a monster. His gaze hungrily consumes the red that drips down Theon’s naked chest, the lines he has carved into his flesh. He likes the way Theon’s skin splits like butter around the blade, parting like the legs of a whore.

Everyone has heard of Theon Greyjoy’s legendary escapades and Ramsay wonders if any of those girls have ever heard the sounds that he has heard come from the Greyjoy’s mouth. The raw things that tear from his hoarse vocal cords, rough from yelling.

It’s an intimate thing, to see someone else come apart before you. People have heard of Bolton’s Bastard too; not the same sort of stories as the Stark’s Greyjoy, but they are nearly equally infamous. Ramsay has always enjoyed watching desperation and horror in the eyes of another, he loves fear the way Theon Greyjoy likes being worshipped in bed.

Ramsay can get on board with that; fear and worship can go hand in hand.

Grinding his teeth into a pained smile, Theon meets that grey gaze in rebellion. He can feel the warmth of his blood as it makes trails down his abdomen and he allows himself to feel like some sort of martyr. “Is that all you have? A few cuts for me here and there? I’m almost disappointed,” Theon rasps, quirking his lips into a sardonic grin, the one that always drove girls mad.

Theon knows he is a Prince and he will never let that go. This monster in human skin tortures him because Theon will always be something that he is not and never will be. Theon loves rubbing the sting of that fact in even though it’s like playing with fire.

Theon Greyjoy is a Prince of the Iron Islands and Ramsay Snow is just a bastard that hates the way that Theon smiles.

The bastard’s eyes fall to Theon lips, tracking the shape of them with slow precision. “I’ve always heard that the whores liked you. Or hated you. Perhaps both. I bet you thought that smile of yours would make them love you.”

A brand of cruelty that Theon lives and breathes shapes the words that slip from his tongue as he stares down into those arctic eyes, a winterscape of hell in a human gaze. He widens his grin. “I bet you have no idea what a look like that can do to a girl. I’m sure no lass has ever looked at _you_ with anything but disgust and fear.”

Ramsay grits his teeth as slight flush colors his neck, hand tightening on the handle of the knife as he steps closer. “Then you should know better than to look at me the way you are now.”

Theon laughs through the backhand that busts his cheekbone, enjoys that humiliated rage twisting Ramsay’s face.

It’s almost worth the pain.

* * *

 

Time becomes aimless and unending. Weeks pass, perhaps months. Theon can barely tell for sure. Bit by bit, the Bastard of Bolton breaks him down, weakening his body all the while fanning the flames of rage in his heart.

Theon’s been caned, whipped, burned, and cut. He’s been _flayed_. All of this for the amusement of a lowly bastard who enjoys the art of pain, the canvas of another’s body.

He learns to tone down his defiance eventually. He’s been brash, arrogant to a fault. He has appeared as a strung-up predator when he needs to appear as weak and broken. After a time, Ramsay has his friends join in with their torturous games. Theon loathes them almost as much as he loathes the bastard.

Theon bides his time, plays broken, waiting for the inevitable that someone will eventually let him down from the St. Andrew’s cross. His patience and suffering eventually wins out.

When Theon is let down from the dreaded, loathsome saltire, he plays his hand. The wounds on his back festered well beyond his captor’s ability to heal and the Bastard’s Boys are told to bring him down to Wolkan the maester. The strange man works on Theon’s back under Ramsay’s scrutiny. “I want him back on the rack, Wolkan. Soon.”

The maester appears to refrain from rolling his eyes as he applies salve to Theon’s burning wounds, pus seeping from them. He can barely groan at the touch, so weak from infection. “I need to draw the contagion out first.”

“How long will that take?” Ramsay snaps with impatience.

“Do you want him to die on the saltire? No? Well, then you will need to let me do my job. It will be a few days.”

The bastard storms from the room with a dark glance at Theon.

“Aren’t you unlucky,” the maester mutters, finishing his work on Theon’s back. “Usually he just lets poor shits like you die of fever and sepsis. Looks like you won’t escape him so easily.”

Theon sleeps better than he has in weeks with the salve on his back. Days pass without the bastard bothering him, leaving him in the maester’s unfeeling care. It is days before Theon finally realizes that he is not chained to the table he is on, realizes that he is strong enough to sit up.

It is a burning realization and Theon knows that he can’t miss his opportunity. This one moment of possible freedom.

Theon takes his chance. He runs and in retrospect, he really should have just thrown himself off the battlements.

He’s not at his strongest and weakness eats at his joints and muscles. He has withered away under Ramsay’s ministrations, but the rage in Theon’s breast is still there, compelling him to run back to the Iron Islands.

It isn’t too hard to escape the keep, no one is really watching for the weak, injured prisoner. He runs up the stairs and finds his way to the main floor. The servant girls give him horrorstruck looks at he tears by, darting through the kitchen like a mad boar. He smashes into one of the serving boys and throws him to the ground, yelling at him to give him his shoes. The boy begins to cry but does as he is asked, shivering in fear. Theon puts them on quickly, never minding that the shoes are slightly too small; it doesn’t matter, he needs to run.

One of the women screams loudly as he knocks into her on his way to the servants door, the metal pot in her hand crashing to the ground loudly.

The sound isn’t nearly as loud as the pound of Theon’s heart in his chest. He is sure everyone can hear it as he breaks out into the daylight, eyes darting wildly as he looks for his next route out of the walls. He doesn’t have time to steal a horse; that would be noticed.

He sees a small drain in the far corner and makes a mad dash, sliding in, holding in his scream as his back breaks open. Hot blood begins to stream down his back under his shirt, but he pays no mind. He crawls and crawls until he is on the other side of the wall and begins to run again, heading for the forest.

Theon nearly laughs, because he can’t believe he’s made it out.

A mile passes under his feet when he finally hears the horns sounding out far behind him. The bastard has finally realized that his captive is gone and it fuels Theon’s desperation to run even harder.

He knows they will come on horseback, but if he can get to the river he can escape, he can lose the hounds. Theon just needs to keep running.

It is only a few minutes more before he hears the wild hoots of laughter echoing through the trees, over the open valleys. The sound of hooves pounding the soil. Ramsay and his Boys are on the hunt and Theon is their game.

The hounds are baying loudly and Theon can barely breathe. He dashes in multiple directions, looking for water. He breaks through into another tree line, panting so hard that he feels his lungs bursting with effort.

His heart nearly stops when he hears the thunder of hooves behind him. Still running, Theon looks over his shoulder and curses, seeing Ramsay charging him at a mad gallop on his red stallion, Blood, blade held out as he leans forward in his saddle.

All is already lost, but Theon doesn’t want to admit it. He’s always been too fucking stubborn for his own good.

Time slows as Theon tries to get more from his weakening body, the thunder behind him all he can hear above the rush of his breath. Within two more strides, Theon is hit hard in the back with the flat of a blade and it knocks all of the remaining air out of his lungs in a rush as he is flung forward.

“You filthy cunt,” Ramsay snarls, face red as he dismounts. “Who do you think you are?”

Perhaps it is a last ditch sliver of self-preservation, but murderous rage fills Theon in that instant as he rolls onto his back to look up at his torturer. Ramsay is approaching him, clenched jaw and eyes filled with death.

It may be the fact that they are both on even ground, that Theon isn’t on the saltire anymore, unable to fight. A false sense of confidence and fury forces Theon to throw himself at Ramsay’s knees, knocking the other man onto his back with a yell.

“I may be a cunt, but you’re a motherfucking bastard,” Theon yells, smashing his fist into Ramsay’s face.

Ramsay’s face snaps to the side with the blow and blood leaks from his nose. Theon is shocked to see it is red like his own; he always figured Ramsay would bleed black. The bastard laughs, but there is no humor in it. He headbutts Theon and Theon grunts in pain, falling away. Ramsay pushes Theon off of him and Theon uses the momentum to roll away, kicking at his opponent in the side twice. Theon takes satisfaction in Ramsay’s snarls of pain.

Ramsay gets to his feet and Theon circles away from him. He knows it is stupid; he can’t possibly fight on equal ground in the state that he is in. The problem is, Theon is prideful and he wants revenge. Ramsay knows this just as well, a sneer shaping his lips, red with blood. He leaps at Theon with a growl.

“I’ve hunted animals, women…never really hunted a man before. You’re the first.” Ramsay grunts with effort as he grabs Theon around the waist and wrestles him to the dirt, all while Theon lays his fists into his head and shoulders. “Isn’t that romantic?”

From the distance, they probably looked like a pair of schoolboys brawling across the sticks and leaves. Theon is good a wrestling, he grew up wrestling with Robb and Jon. He’s good, but now he is weak from torture and malnutrition.

It isn’t fair.

The only thing allowing him to hold his own is his fury and desperation. He would rather die than go back to the St. Andrew’s Cross in Ramsay’s dungeon, for that is surely where he will go if he allows Ramsay to drag him back.

His opponent is strong, deceptively strong. Even if Theon were full strength, he isn’t sure he would be able to contend with the pure viciousness that lends Ramsay the upper edge. He can feel the muscle definition in his arms when they fight for the upper hand and the snap of teeth near his ear makes Theon shudder.

If he didn’t know better, he would think he is fighting an animal, not a man.

With a stroke of luck, Theon knocks his elbow into Ramsay’s nose and the bastard laughs viciously as his own blood spurts onto them both, covering Theon’s mouth. “If I had known you could fight like this, I might have let you down sooner!”

The taste of his blood on Theon’s tongue is pure copper and sin. Ramsay’s pale eyes are dilated madly and Theon hates him for it, hates the yawning black of those pupils as they take him in, as if this is all part of his master fucking plan.

As always, Theon is his greatest source of entertainment.

“You’re not supposed to be enjoying this,” Theon rasps blankly, because he just doesn’t understand this man.

In a whirl of brute force, Theon is thrown over onto his stomach, Ramsay kneeling on his back. Theon tries to dislodge him, but he isn’t strong enough. He pants into the dirt furiously, yelling in frustration. This isn’t supposed to happen!

Ramsay’s breath is coming just as hard, though Theon can’t tell if it is from exertion or excitement. Probably both, knowing the sick bastard. “Get off of me,” Theon snarls into the dirt, trying to push himself up once more.

His opponent leans over him, his mouth close to Theon’s ear. “Don’t you want to know what it’s like being all those girl’s you always paid for fun? Even though they didn’t want it? I think it’s time you learned your place.”

For a moment, all thought leaves Theon as the words sink in. He thinks of Ros and Kyra and thinks of the times their faces had scrunched up with pain that they had tried to hide, the way they had sometimes averted their faces from his when he was inside of them-

“No,” Theon cries out, a whisper of horror entering his tone, “No…don’t…you can’t!”

Ramsay pauses behind him, tenses. His gloved hand wraps into Theon’s hair harshly, pulling his head back hard. Growls with teeth, eyes wild. “Don’t ever tell me what I _can’t_ do to you. You will never like what happens next.”

If Theon fought hard before, he fights for what remains of his honor now. He thrashes hard as Ramsay tears down his trousers, exposing him to the chill air. He throws his head back hard and makes contact with Ramsay’s lip, feels the blood drip down onto the nape of his neck. Ramsay does not falter in his purpose despite the injury and Theon struggles, tries to crawl out from under him.

Something cold kisses the skin of Theon’s neck and it only takes a few moments for him to realize that it is the touch of Ramsay’s curved dagger against his jugular. Theon freezes instantly and considers throwing himself into the blade, slitting his own throat.

Blood blood blood everywhere and he wouldn’t even care.

“I hear struggling makes it worse, so you may want to be careful,” Ramsay says huskily, his other hand resting on Theon’s hip.

The hand is shaking, the one against Theon’s skin and Theon doesn’t really understand why. Maybe the shaking is coming from Theon, making them both vibrate with energy. “I will fucking end you,” Theon hisses brokenly, staring straight ahead, seeing the dying green of the grass spread before them.

He feels rather than hears Ramsay undo his breeches. Feels the rasp of his hand as Ramsay touches himself, runs his hand up and down his length with rough sounds of concentration, trying to get himself hard enough. Torn between disgust and horror, Theon realizes that men _really_ are _not_ Ramsay’s thing.

But pain and control are.

“Don’t you see,” Ramsay pants harshly, the heat of him briefly touching Theon as he moves his hand up and down. Theon twitches violently, the blade at his neck thinly slicing his skin. “The very idea of this is killing you inside and I’m only giving you what you deserve. I’ll never give you anything you actually want.”

Then, without warning, something blunt pushes against Theon’s entrance, but there is no give. Theon curses loudly, furiously, says all sort of things that he is sure will get his neck cut then and there, but instead the burn in his arse is all that he gets. Ramsay grunts, pushes again, trying to seat himself inside of Theon with little luck.

He can’t get in.

With a touch of the macabre, Theon ponders that Ramsay is a virgin and it makes him cackle with hysterics, fueled by the horror of the situation. He knows it isn’t true, he’s heard stories of hunted women, but the idea of it soothes his pain for a brief moment.

“I don’t see the humor here,” Ramsay says hoarsely, the hand with the blade coming away from a moment as Ramsay hits Theon hard in the back of the head.

Theon wants to tell him he’s terrible at this, but with a hard lunge forward, accompanied by a curse, Ramsay forces his way in. A cry dies in Theon’s throat at the sensation of his tissue ripping to accommodate the man behind him, dry as a leaf.

The burn is dreadful and for a moment Theon thinks the pain inside of his body will kill him if nothing else. He can feel the organ inside of him, full and heated, pulsing with the heartbeat of the man behind him. Theon twists violently, once more panicked. His hands come up to push at the hand holding the blade against his throat, but Ramsay plasters himself to Theon’s back, an arm like iron around his waist as he sinks as far as he can go. Theon can push all he wants at the hand with the blade, but they are already entwined and he can’t push the hand and the cock away from him.

Theon has never felt such hate and despair in his life, never felt what he feels for his torturer. He’s ruined him and with so shameful an act. The bastard is breathing hard against Theon’s neck and the scent of him, forest and earth sends him into a mindless fury. Theon tries to dislodge him, trying to send them sideways, but Ramsay snaps his hips hard, groaning as Theon cries out in agony.

He’s sizeable and Theon has never been with a man, never even wanted to be with a man. This is too much for his body and his mind is screaming its rejections.

Ramsay is shaking against him; Theon can feel him clear as day through his thin shirt and Ramsay’s leather jerkin. A slim piece of power shifts into Theon again as he senses a moment of weakness, wanting to cut deep into it. Despite the pain, he bucks his hips and thrashes one of his elbows out, once again trying to escape his current dilemma. “What’s wrong back there? Do I need to tell you how this is done?” Theon says the words and they are just as hideous as he feels inside.

His elbow catches Ramsay in the side and the other man grunts in discomfort and a hand wraps in Theon’s hair roughly as Ramsay takes control again. “I’m sorry, _Prince_. Am I too slow for you?”

Then it starts and Theon shouts earnestly as Ramsay slams into him hard, repeatedly. It feels like his insides are being shredded by razors and fire all wrapped into one. He instantly regrets goading Ramsay, regrets it with every fiber of his being. Theon never knows when to back down from a fight, after all.

The battle begins again, Theon struggling hard, pulling against the arm around his waist, kicking out his legs to try and move away from the hips behind him. However, it’s no use as Ramsay plants his knees between Theon’s legs, using his own hips as a way to keep him spread open from his body.

Liquid begins to trickle down Theon’s thighs and he vaguely realizes it’s his blood and he’s being humped like a bitch in heat. He whines in horror, buries his face into the dirt in dismay. His stomach is cramping violently against the assault and he’s sure that he’s going to die, his body isn’t built for this.

“By all means, keep up that racket,” the bastard sneers lowly, “Do you want my boys to see you like this? See you bent over like a woman? Taking my cock?”

Terror so blinding strikes Theon at those words and his mouth snaps shut. The idea of anyone seeing him like this is too awful to imagine. He can barely bear the humiliation of being taken like a woman by this man, but being seen by others…that is nearly worse.

The burn of flesh pressing into his own is unbearable and his own cock hangs limply between his legs.

“Would you bloody well hurry up!” Theon snarls harshly, mind spinning with agony. He wants it to be over, he wants it all to be over. He leans against the blade at his throat and feels it cutting deeper into his neck. He begins to press against it harder, ready to end it all when Ramsay sets the blade aside quickly, showing his hand that he’s unwilling to let Theon kill himself.

The now free hand presses Theon’s face into the ground and Ramsay twists his hips into his arse faster, harder. “Shut your insolent mouth and maybe I can finish this, annoying cunt,” Ramsay grunts and Theon flushes at the insult.

He really does feel like a whore now and for a moment he regrets how he treated Kyra and Ros.

Finally, the bastard at his back grips him hard, his hips stuttering in a pattern that Theon recognizes. He feels the pulse of his cock inside of him and it is strange, feeling a man releasing versus how Theon felt climaxing inside of women.

Once Ramsay’s grip on Theon relaxes, Theon sags fully into the dirt, mind shutting down, trying to not think about the fluid filling him. He feels raw, like he’s been used and abused forever. Anger burns in him still, but it is broken, weakened. Shame is his bed partner now, telling him on repeat that he is worthless, something his family would be ashamed of, he’s become something they wouldn’t recognize.

Theon wants to dig his own grave until his fingernails break and bleed against the earth.

Ramsay pulls out of Theon quickly and Theon sobs into the dirt, wanting to claw his own eyes out. There isn’t much that is more horrible than this, Theon is sure.

The moments pass in silence aside from their equally harsh breathing. Ramsay’s face twists as he stands, buckling his belt and adjusting his breeches. His gaze settles on Theon, who hasn’t found the will to move from where he has sunk miserably. “Pull up your trousers and stand. We’re done here.”

Theon numbly opens his eyes and slowly fumbles with the laces of his bottoms. His body aches and every moment hurts. His hands shake uncontrollably and cold eats at his heart. This…what had just happened…it was not something Theon ever wanted to dwell upon again.

The humiliation of it…treated no better than a common whore.

Faintly, Theon can hear the bastard walking away, most likely to his horse. He could try running again, but he doesn’t think he can even stand. His grits his teeth against the tears that spill down his cheeks as he finally gets his trousers fully on.

“Get. Up.”

Theon stiffens in place, digging his face into the dirt in an effort to hide his tears, his shame under the filth. Slowly, he stands, gasping in discomfort. He stands there awkwardly, knees pressed together, arms clutched around his body. He does not turn to face his captor. He can’t.

“Look at me.” The words are soft, a contradiction to everything that has just transpired.

Slowly, painfully, Theon turns to face the Bastard of Bolton, doesn’t want to see those eyes, fears they will be laughing at him. Only, they aren’t; his eyes are still like the ocean after a storm has passed and Theon allows him to grab his wrists without a fight.

He’s tired of fighting, he’s got nothing left now.

Ramsay ties a rope around Theon’s wrists, testing it to make sure it’s tied tight. His eyes flicker up to Theon own red rimmed gaze and something flickers there within his expressionless face. There’s an acknowledgement between them, unspoken.

The horror, the filth that had just recently occurred. Theon can hear Ramsay’s words in his head, _never really hunted a man before…you’re the first._

Something tells Theon that the bastard would be pleased to hear that he’s also Theon’s first man and the thought is unwanted and unnecessary. Theon swallows hard, tries to think of anything other than what has just transpired.

A new sort of torment.

Ramsay gets back on his horse and ties the rope to the saddle. To Theon’s relief, Ramsay doesn’t canter off, but allows his horse to walk. Every step is pain and Theon can feel the trickle of blood and…other fluids leaking down his legs.

_Shame shame shame look at how disgusting you are_

After twenty minutes of walking, Ramsay turns to call over his shoulder, his good-natured tone back in place. As if what had just transpired had never occurred. His split lip says otherwise. “If you imagined that I ran an inn that you could leave at will, you imagined wrong, _Prince_.”

Theon cannot bear to look at him; he can feel Ramsay in every step, a physical touch on his body. He doesn’t want to look at the cut of his shoulders in his dirtied coat, the pale skin of his neck that is colored with a hint of a flush. The way his trim waist moves and sways with the rhythm of his horse.

After all, Theon has no desire to look upon the body that had dominated his only a short time ago.

Ramsay Snow sees his captive blatantly ignoring him, sees how Theon stares down at his tied wrists. A sneer shapes his lips and he turns to face forward, gloating in silence.

 

* * *

 

Theon is sleeping on the saltire when he is roughly yanked down by multiple sets of hands. He yells, struggling, flashes of horror racing through his mind. Hands, holding him down. He imagines them stripping him down, holding him down and violating him, because it is truly the worst thing he can imagine happening now that it has already occurred once.

He hates himself for his weakness, his fear. He hates how he could have allowed something so horrid to happen to him, so shameful and disgusting.

Balon Greyjoy would disown him if he knew and a piece of Theon withers at the thought.

A torch is lit, showing the faces of the men holding him down on the stone floor. Skinner and Damon hold him tight while Alyn holds onto his legs. Just beyond, Ramsay stands holding the torch, gazing down with coals for eyes, a fallen angel in the night with black hair for a halo.

There is a promise in those burning eyes and Theon doesn’t like what it implies.

Dread coils like a snake, slithering down Theon’s spine as he fights against the rough grip on his wrists. “But…” he croaks out hoarsely, mouth dry from thirst, “what…yesterday…you punished me already…I haven’t done anything…”

The stone floor is cold against his back as the Bastard’s Boys wrestle to keep him pinned to the ground, wrists held tight. There is a manic excitement in their gazes as they look between Theon and Ramsay, giving Theon the impression that something horrible and creative is coming his way.

The bastard himself chuckles, flipping a strange blade in his hand as he looks down at Theon from his place against the wall.

“Yesterday? Oh, you thought that was your punishment? You stupid whoreson.” The bastard smiles at Theon, eyes innocently wide, flames reflecting there. “That was a privilege, but I guess I didn’t make that clear enough for you. That’s my fault; you’re slow and I should have known.”

Theon stares at him blankly, breath coming hard and fast along with the tremors in his limbs. _He called that…what he did…a privilege?_

_He can almost feel the heat of him against his back, firm and present. A brand against his flesh as he drives into him slowly, with effort, because Theon’s body isn’t ready for this, the bastard isn’t prepared and doesn’t know what he’s fucking doing back there and Theon’s body isn’t accommodating-_

Theon closes his eyes and whines miserably, blotting the memory from his mind. His body still aches where the bastard had been.

Ramsay laughs raucously at the disgusted expression on Theon’s face. “Didn’t make much of an impression on you, I see. I didn’t live up to your high standards? The technique wasn’t just so? Well, now you’ve got me embarrassed.”

The two men holding Theon’s arms down, Skinner and Damon, both have confused looks on their faces and Theon is glad they have no clue about what is being discussed.

Sour Alyn remains holding only one of Theon’s ankles as Ramsay gestures. The bastard pushes away from the wall and comes to stand between Theon’s now spread legs. Theon tries to close them, but Ramsay kicks them apart again. He kneels, eyes boring into Theon’s furious ones. In a tone only meant for Theon, Ramsay says, “I’m sure you’re thinking you could teach me a thing or two. I’m sure you could! Yes? But…you see…I just don’t like the idea of you thinking you’re better than me. Can’t have that, can we? Because you’re not. You’re not better than me and that’s because you _belong_ to _me_.”

Spitting at Ramsay the best he can from his position on the floor, Theon hurls himself against the hands holding him down. Ramsay watches him from under lowered lashes, darkly amused at Theon’s weak insolence. “You don’t own shit, _bastard_ , and you certainly don’t own _me_.”

Those eyes of steel darken, almost going black. The blade in Ramsay’s hand plucks into the waistband of Theon’s trousers with ample threat, causing Theon to halt in his breathing. “You see,” Ramsay whispers softly, razorblades in his voice, “You _are_ mine. I can do what I want with you. Anything. And that part of you that you derive so much pleasure from, that part that gives you all your pride and sense of being…it’s _mine_.”

The blade cuts through the fabric, the sound loud in the dank dungeon. Sweat drips down Theon’s neck, cold against his terrified skin. The trousers part and expose Theon to the room and when he locks eyes with the bastard, he knows exactly what he has planned.

“Bind his ankles,” Ramsay says blandly to Alyn. “We don’t want to nick an artery on accident when he’s struggling.”

Theon screams.  


* * *

 

“Most girls are liars, but they didn’t lie about _you_ ,” Ramsay muses later, eyes like a winter night.

Theon is another piece less now and the pain is a howling storm in his body, raging and screaming with all its might.

He’s not quite sure who he is without this crucial piece, this part of himself that made him famous with the whores and the ladies. He’s been in and out of consciousness for the better part of…well, he has no clue how much time has passed.

Time is a black hole down in the dark of the dungeon.

Theon remembers being held down and the blind fear that came with the curved blade, waved in his face so that he might understand. He never quite thought it would come to this, never quite thought the bastard would sink to this level of depravity.

But he did. Oh, he did.

The bastard shifts in his chair, legs spread as he studies his mutilated captive. His head lolls back on his shoulders with a lazy sort of ease as he gazes at Theon from under lowered lashes, down his nose. _He has full control_ , Theon muses sickly, _it calms him_.

“It’s strange,” Ramsay utters softly, “to think that I’m the last one to have fucked the man that all those whores used to talk about.”

Theon makes a retching noise, bile rising in his throat. The pain and the memories are unwanted, unnecessary. He wants to disassociate from the bad dream, from the grass and dirt, the chill air around them as they wrestled. The dying sun had been surreal, its light making all color bright with painful clarity as Ramsay thrust into-

“That wasn’t me,” Theon stutters out, shaking, “I wasn’t-”

Ramsay’s eyes drift up and to the left, thinking. “You’re right. That wasn’t you.” He points his knife. “That was Theon Greyjoy. You’re not him anymore, not _really_. You’re not even a man.”

A small amount of sun trickles through the barred window, the small amount of light allowed into the dungeon. Theon’s eyes catch on the sight of dust floating through the slim rays of sun. It’s like watching stars, gentle stars falling through the air, through the stillness.

Theon let’s his mind drift. The dust is beautiful, even as if drifts into nothingness. Theon would like that. To drift into nothing and nowhere.

Together, they remain in silence. Theon examines the slim rays of light, avoiding the eyes that follow the lines of his throat and clavicle. He’s too ashamed now, to meet that gaze, to be the defiant Theon Greyjoy that he used to be. He fought hard, but it wasn’t enough.

Theon’s lost the war and he can’t bear to look at the victor and have him see defeat in Theon’s sea green eyes.

Waiting with a sort of tense anxiety, Theon waits for Ramsay to grow bored of looking at him, looking at him like his own personal prize. It has finally sunk in; Theon is _owned_ and he has no choice but to accept the fact. He has spent months under the knife all for the pleasure of a sadist who appears to be in no rush to end his suffering.

When the bastard finally sighs and leaves the dungeon, a sliver of Theon’s soul leaves with him.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get that piece of himself back, but he knows the bastard will keep it like a trophy.  


* * *

 

“What is your name?”

He doesn’t want to say it, but he knows he must. There is only one answer and Ramsay only wants to hear what he wants to hear. “Reek.”

Demented joy is a wicked flash in those wolf eyes.

Theon sags into himself, feels something cracking, breaking. It could be his heart. Maybe his soul. He sees an expectant look shape Ramsay’s face and knows that the sick bastard wants to hear him elaborate. Theon’s humiliation excites his captor in the way that naked women excite the average man.

A slow blink, a calculating look, the way he tries to hide his elevated breathing. Theon knows. Theon sees, he isn’t blind, deaf, or stupid. When you spend your weeks examining the body of one person and one person alone, you know the signs.

“My name is…Reek.” It feels like Theon is speaking around knives in his mouth.

Pale eyes dilate and the shark like grin widens, canines glinting in the firelight. Theon briefly wonders what it would feel like to have those teeth tear out the artery in his throat. What it would feel like to have the warm spray of his blood pour down his naked chest as his lungs struggle to breathe their last.

Theon blinks the thought away as a warm hand curls around the nape of his neck. Controlling. Claiming. He’s been so cold in this dungeon with only his trousers for warmth. He wants to cringe away from the touch, but it is the only touch he has received that doesn’t hurt.

He burns with indignity; how low he has fallen.

“That’s my good boy,” Ramsay mutters, because above all else he enjoys being obeyed.

But, Theon figures that Ramsay probably enjoys it even more when he isn’t. Obeyed, that is.

Ramsay likes it even better when he’s punishing unwilling flesh.

He relishes it even more when the unwilling flesh begs for punishment and begs to be cut, begs to die, because he gets a thrill hearing that level of desperation enter another human’s voice. He loves denying them what they want.

Theon knows. He’s asked.

To die, that is.


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon Greyjoy is trying his best to be Reek. Or, perhaps Reek is trying his best to **not** be Theon Greyjoy.
> 
> It isn't easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters or Game of Thrones. Those all belong to George R. R. Martin.
> 
>  **AN:** Somehow, this turned into something seriously filthy. Kid you not. I'm hoping it doesn't take away from the flow of the story too much, but yeah. I tried to make this story only 2 chapters, but it spilled into 3 since I have yet to unveil the end game of this fic.

After some time passes and Reek no longer tries to run away, he is given chores.

He’s not very good at them.

He’s not very good at pretending to be Reek either, but he does his best to temper what remains of his former self. The very thought of Prince Theon Greyjoy is enough to send his new master into a blithering rage.

Reek scrubs and scrubs away at the stone floor in the great hall, staring mutely at all of the cracks before him. It is a painful task; his knees have become rather bony and sore and he cannot stop his work until he is completely finished.

If he disobeys, if he leaves anything dirty…well…Reek shudders miserably. He can’t afford to lose anything else.

_Reek, Reek, it rhymes with weak._

It _is_ hard to remember his name. He tries so hard to remember that he isn’t Theon Greyjoy anymore. Theon Greyjoy is a dangerous name and Reek must forget him. He’s no better than a servant now, in fact he’s below a servant.

Reek is a slave.

His world must revolve around the most dangerous man in the North, he must crawl to do his wishes like a dog, a willing pet. Reek isn’t willing and he doesn’t adore his master. He still has too much of who he isn’t running through his sluggish veins.

Reek fears his master and remains mostly docile, because he knows there is nothing that Ramsay Snow isn't capable of.

It kills him inside, on dark nights alone in the kennels, to think of how Reek came to be. How Theon Greyjoy betrayed his best friend in a desperate bid to find his place with the Ironborn. Instead, Theon ended up humiliated, debased, and mutilated. Robb Stark ended up dead.

Theon Greyjoy was a disloyal man. Reek cannot afford to be the same, not to Ramsay Snow.

The sound of boots on stone echoes off the corridors, pulling him from his sluggish, depressed mind. He looks up to see the blonde member of the Bastard’s Boys looking down at him quizzically, a whip curled at his hip. Reek’s back stings at the memory of his master burying that very whip in his back some days ago. He hadn’t been pleased with Damon’s performance; Ramsay hadn’t thought Damon had struck Reek hard enough.

Ramsay Snow wanted to be sure that Reek suffered.  

The large man studies Reek kneeling there, sees the way Ramsay’s creature eyes him with apprehension. Of all the Bastard’s Boys this is the one who seems to have all the good looks and half the savagery. Reek prefers being punished by Damon, only because the man occasionally pulled the weight behind his whip.

Skinner had nearly as much fun as Ramsay did when it came to causing senseless harm. Damon, however, tended to wrinkle his nose with distaste when he came across Reek. He even acted like beating him was a trial, complaining that the stench of Reek was going to make him die if Reek didn’t bugger off.

Yes, Reek prefers Damon to the others, because at least he doesn’t dig into Reek’s flesh with uncontrolled glee. That isn’t to say he is kind; he isn’t. He joins in the bullying more often than not and laughs at Reek’s misery all the same.

“Reek,” Damon says in that husky voice of his, “You missed a spot; look.”

 _It’s dirty because you’re tracking in mud and filth, you complete dolt,_ Reek thinks traitorously, though he tries to keep his dangerous thoughts out of his eyes.

It wouldn’t do to let Theon Greyjoy peak through.

“Sorry,” Reek says quietly, reluctantly, moving to wipe the ground beside Damon with his rag.

Damon watches him with dark blue eyes, aversion in his gaze. “You’re smearing the dirt around, Reek. You’re making it worse. Fucking useless.”

_If only he would go away. If it isn’t clean by tonight, my Lord with take a toe. I can’t lose another toe. I can’t I can’t I can’t…_

Reek stares down at the muddied rag in his hand, at the water that has become more brown than clear and feels himself go cold. His mind becomes numb as he imagines the flaying knife, the games his Lord would play, the crazy look in his grey eyes.

He is only pulled from his despaired thought process when Damon’s filthy boot pushes him backwards. “Get some new water and clean my boots, Reek. And be quick about it, I don’t have all day.”

 _You don’t even need to be here with me at all,_ Reek thinks with hysteria. _You’re going to get me in trouble._

Hobbling away, Reek takes his bucket of filthy water and disposes of it. It takes him some time, but he goes to the serving quarter where water is kept in a tub for cleaning purposes, allowing the servants to avoid making repeated runs to the outdoor well.

When he comes back to the hall, he half hopes that Damon will have left, gotten bored waiting for him. Reek is unlucky, as he always is.

Damon is leaning against the wall nonchalantly, cleaning his fingernails idly with one of his knives. His golden hair falls over his eyes as he concentrates on his work, but Reek can tell when his attention has shifted back to Reek.

“Oh, were you expecting me to leave while you took your sweet time? No chance, Reek, no fucking chance.”

Holding in a sigh of dismay, Reek kneels down beside his master’s man. He has no choice in the matter, for he is a slave, not a prince. He’s not Theon Greyjoy, he’s nothing and he’s worthless.

“My boots, Reek. Get to it,” Damon says, inching one of his feet towards Reek’s unenthusiastic hands.

Reek wets the rag and wrings it out over the stone before rubbing at Damon’s muddied boot aggressively. He can feel the man’s gaze on the top of his head, like a physical caress. Damon doesn’t talk while Reek works and Reek is fine with that.

It's always better when they don’t talk to him. Their cruel words and japes. Nothing brings the Bastard’s Boys more pleasure than humiliating Reek, because they know who he was before. They are all lowborn men, same as their master, and they love seeing a highborn man brought beneath them.

Reek wishes he were brave enough to slit his own throat just so he could escape his daily hell. If it isn’t Ramsay tormenting him, it’s his men.

When Reek finishes with one boot, Damon shifts and places his remaining foot on Reek’s shoulder, pressing down lightly. The mud drips onto Reek’s ragged shirt. With irritation, Reek gazes up and catches Damon’s eye by accident. Reek places a hand under Damon’s calf and on his knee, pressing his foot off of Reek so that Reek can better clean it. Damon’s leg is warm under his shivering hands.

 _One would think that he believes I’m his personal servant,_ Reek muses, his hands tired from scrubbing.

As Reek finishes polishing both boots, he stares down at them, not wanting to look up. “Is that all?”

Reek hopes he doesn’t sound too put off. But he is. He is put off. He needs to finish cleaning this hall before his master returns.

“You’ve been surprisingly well-behaved this afternoon. No more fire left, huh? No more spitting, biting and clawing from you these days I hear,” Damon drawls.

 _Because I’m starving, I’m beat, and my body is broken,_ Reek thinks, trying to not audibly clench his jaw as he studies the ground intently.

“If you do one more thing for me, I’ll give you my plate at dinner. After I’ve eaten what I want, of course.”

At those words, Reek’s stomach gurgles greedily. He is not fed well, despite working like any servant in the Dreadfort. He’s eaten rats before, out of desperation. He was punished for that though, for those rats belong to the Lord of the Dreadfort, Roose Bolton.

His mouth waters despite the memory making him ill; the rats tasted gamey, but any meat would do.

“I…what could…what do you want from…creature like me?” Reek asks hesitantly, a slight spark of hope building in his breast.

Reek has suffered terrible things…one more dreadful chore isn’t going to break his back. Especially not if food is involved. However, it's when he sees the slight bulge in Damon’s breeches that his stomach drops with revulsion.

_He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t possibly dare…_

“The whores around here are picking my pockets dry. I’m curious as to what sort of skill that nasty mouth of yours has. You can’t charge me anyway, you’re a slave,” Damon muses.

_He is. Drowned God, he dares._

“I…won’t be very good…milord…I’ve never done that…before,” Reek stammers, mouth going dry, his throat closing with anxiety. He'd rather starve.

He will rip Damon’s cock off with his bare hands, Reek tells himself he will. He won’t be used like a woman ever again.

“I’ll teach you,” Damon replies simply. “An idiot like you can suck.”

Damon unlaces his breeches slowly and Reek nearly dry heaves at the very idea of what he is being asked to do.

“I…no. _No_. He would flay me. He…he might even flay you,” Reek utters in a hushed tone, heart pounding in his head.

No one needs any elaboration on who ‘he’ is.

“If you don’t do it, I’ll tell him you begged me to fuck your mouth, because you’re hungry and my seed- anyone’s seed will do,” Damon says cruelly, the bully in him coming to light.

It becomes clear that Damon wants this and not even the threat of Ramsay is going to stop him. _He wouldn’t…he wouldn’t dare say that to Ramsay…would he?_ Reek doesn’t want to think of his master’s reaction.

The man that Reek used to be can remember the humiliation of being taken like a woman, the horrid shame of it all, being debased so thoroughly. This….this is nearly as terrible, a man’s hard cock aching to be inside Reek once more.

That one time with his master was terrible enough. Reek cannot stomach the idea of his men having their way with him as well.

Reek stares at the hard length in Damon’s hand. It’s sizeable, its purple head already wet and leaking. Despite how furious Ramsay would be to hear Damon’s words, Reek cannot bring himself to wrap his mouth around the man’s cock.

The pieces of Theon Greyjoy that still exist inside of him scream in fury, would tear at his own hair over the idea of sucking a man’s prick. Theon Greyjoy would rather take the punishment.

So, Reek looks up at those blue eyes and calmly tells Damon to suck his own cock. Surprise blooms in Damon’s face, then anger. He grabs Reek’s bucket, filled with water, and swings it at his head. The blow is hard enough to knock him out.

When Reek comes to, he’s in the dungeon and his master is sitting in his usual chair, staring at him blankly. For a moment, Reek wonders what Damon told him, if he told Ramsay that Reek sucked his cock. Told a lie just to have Reek suffer, because Damon doesn’t like being rejected.

“Reek. There you are! You didn’t clean my father’s hall,” Ramsay says conversationally, “You made it worse, actually. I can’t say I’m disappointed. You know what comes next. Yes?”

He nearly sags with relief, because he knows that Ramsay’s wrath would have been worse had Damon told the filthy lie.

“Say yes, Reek. I want to hear you say it.”

“Yes, my Lord! I…I deserve to be punished!” Reek has no idea what else he is expected to say.

“Good. That’s what I like to hear. Now. Pick a number between one and five, pet,” Ramsay says with excitement.

There are straps holding Reek immobilized on the table and Reek struggles to imagine what the game may be. Ramsay had threatened to take one of his toes…so perhaps the number is the amount of toes he will take? Or perhaps which toe he will flay? Reek’s mind spins madly and his body shakes with distant fear.

Reek whines miserably, shakes hard against the restraints.

“Ah, ah, ah. No, Reek. You have to pick a number. That’s the game. That’s it.” Ramsay’s voice is singsong, mocking.

His eyes are wide and excited, staring down at Reek with eagerness. The sick bastard can’t wait to use his knife.

“Four,” Reek cries out, sobbing miserably. Tears stream down his face.

Ramsay almost seems disappointed as he looks down at Reek’s feet. “What a good choice. It’s almost like you knew. Oh well.”

He beings flaying Reek’s ring toe, the fourth from the big toe. Reek screams, wails, but he does not beg. Inside, despite the agony, he is glad he chose correctly; four toes gone would have been devasting, but he took a gamble that it was the order of the toes.

The flaying does not last long; Ramsay is precise and skilled with a blade. When he is done peeling off Reek’s toenail, he cuts off the toe at the knuckle, leaves a small stump so that it doesn’t affect Reek’s ability to walk too much.

Reek sobs as his master unbuckles the straps holding him down. Ramsay runs his hand through Reek’s hair with a strange grin on his face.

“Damon told me something else. Would you like to know what, Reek?” His tone changes, becomes sugary sweet.

Reek knows what that means and he sobs brokenly. There is danger here. With fire in his eyes, Ramsay pushes him off the table, causing Reek to cry out when he hits the hard stone floor.

“He told me that my creature, _mine,_ begged him like a bitch in heat…” Ramsay starts to say, an ugly sneer on his lips.

Reek crawls forward, wincing as blood oozes from his mutilated foot. “Master, no! Your Reek would never do that! He lied-”

Ramsay backhands him, teeth bared viciously. “You begged to suck his cock! You. Worthless slut. Tell me, did you like how he tasted?”

Curling in on himself, Reek whines horribly. This cannot be happening; his master will end him for this. “I swear, master…I…I never…please-”

In a swift movement, Ramsay is crouching beside him, bringing the scent of the forest and hound with him. His hand tangles in Reek’s hair roughly and he tugs hard, making Reek look up at his face. “Did you run your tongue up and down like a whore? Did you make him like it? What did he sound like when he moaned for you?”

There’s a certain quality to Ramsay’s voice and despite his sheer terror, Reek feels like he is being egged on. It’s beyond clear that his master doesn’t want to hear denials; he’s already made up his mind about what Reek has done.

Shaking with humiliation, with nerves, Reek takes in a quivering breath and hopes he’s read his master right. His master doesn't like being wrong, so Reek must go along with this horrible charade. “I swallowed him whole, even though he tried to push me away. He…he wanted to remain loyal to you…didn’t want to touch your property. But…”

“ _But what_?” The words are a roaring growl.

Reek cringes, searches his mind for something awful. “But…I drooled on him. I made it loud, filthy. He liked it, held onto my face and humped my mouth.”

“And you took it. Did you like it, the way he filled your throat? Gods, I bet you made him weak,” Ramsay hisses, his eyes going black with emotion.

They are so close together that Reek can see the way his master’s eyes become like the night sky, his pupils spreading across his grey irises. His pulse is fluttering madly in his throat and the expression he wears seems a mix of fury and hunger.

_Why is he looking at me like this?_

“He made me choke on it. He pressed my nose to his belly…made me tongue his balls,” Reek continues, mind trying to think of more filthy inspiration.

A noise escapes Ramsay, nearly unnoticeable.

“Did your little slit ache for him? Do you touch your hideous fucking scar while he fucked down your throat,” Ramsay presses, eyes wild. “Well, did you?”

 _Ah…what? What?!_ Reek stares back him, mind going blank.

His scar. His slit, as Ramsay liked to call it. Where Reek’s cock used to be. Misery and shame wash over Reek at the mention, the idea of him taking his pleasure with Damon by…touching…that mess…it’s too much. He can barely stand to look at the reminder of what he lost, let alone touch it.

Reek gasps, hyperventilates.

Ramsay slaps him. “No. Don’t fucking do that. Breathe.”

They stare into each other’s eyes, both breathing heavily. They’ve completely worked each other up, a ridiculous notion. Reek can count all the shades of grey in Ramsay’s eyes, they are so close now. Ramsay is glaring down at him, teeth bared with eyes murderous and demanding.

Reek can almost taste Ramsay’s breath on his tongue.

Whatever Ramsay sees on Reek’s tearstained face causes him to snort and look away. When he meets Reek’s desperate gaze once more, Reek can see that the anger has bled away and has been replaced with a strange sort of amusement. It is almost as if the anger was never there in the first place, the transition so fluid. “Reek,” Ramsay says slowly, a hint of a smile in his tone, “You’re _such_ a cunt. We both know you never sucked his cock. You won’t even suck _mine_.”

It’s a fact. There are days when his master comes home from a hunt in a state of slight arousal from the excitement of chasing down prey (some of them human woman). Some of those days, his master’s eyes will cut over to him with consideration, his cock heavy in his breeches, visible to Reek’s gaze.

Nothing has ever come of the consideration though; whatever Ramsay sees in Reek’s eyes gives him pause. No man wants to put his cock where it might get bitten off…and there is little doubt that Reek will try at least once.

His master hasn’t used him again. Not since Theon Greyjoy tried to escape. Reek has been grateful for small things like that.

“You didn’t actually think I believed Damon, did you? I’d have knocked out all of your teeth instead of taking your toe if I had.” Then Ramsay laughs uproariously, their game done. Then he whispers conspiratorially, “That way you could suck _everyone’s_ cock.”

_So, he was playing a game with me all along._

Reek sags, allowing the pain of his mutilated stump of a toe to consume him.

His master is not wrong.  


* * *

 

“Reek. Undress me.”

Reek shuffles over to his master hesitantly. Unwillingly. He does not want to be anywhere near the man, but he cannot let that emotion show. As of late, his master has been requesting that Reek help prepare him for bed at night, helping him out of his leather jerkin, belts, breeches, boots, various knife sheathes, etc.

It is one more terribly intimate experience that Reek has no desire to take part in. He loathes attending his master and he loathes the warm intimacy of his chambers, despite the fact that his master has never touched him in a shameful way since…since that…time. That time that he was Theon Greyjoy.

When he is in his small clothes, Ramsay climbs into his bed and sits, eyeing Reek as he stokes the fire for his master.

_Why does he have to make every interaction as awful as possible?_

Everything about Ramsay hurts Reek, even when no physical harm is involved.

Ramsay stares at him, sees the way Reek is eyeing him with poorly disguised trepidation. The bastard rolls his eyes dramatically and leans back into his pillows. Reek stands nervously, not sure what is expected of him. The fire burns beside the bed, the fireplace large and ominous in the dark room.

“Reek.” Ramsay utters dryly after a few moments of tense silence, “Go back to the kennels if you miss them so much.”

“My lord,” Reek responds quickly with a piteous bow, mentally cursing himself for not saying the words in a more lowborn dialect.

It isn’t until Reek is stumbling into the cold of the kennels, listening to the hounds baying madly, that he realizes his master may have been considering having Reek stay in his chambers through the night. Like a pet.

Reek hopes he didn’t offend him by leaving. Offending him wouldn’t be a good thing. Offending Ramsay would mean blades and whips in the morning.

On the cold kennel floor Reek lies, listening to the dogs whimpering in their sleep. His rags are not enough to keep him comfortable, but he has begun to get used to the chill. It has seeped into his bones now, an ache he can abide if he throws his mind into the winds to drift away.

Reek would rather be here, in the frigid kennels with Ramsay’s hounds. He’d rather be here than in his master’s warm chambers, sleeping on the bear rug in front of his fireplace. Reek would rather die of the cold than sleep in comfort at Ramsay’s feet. He would go mad, listening to the bastard’s soft breathing as he slept. Reek can even imagine that he would be able to see his master’s pulse in his pale neck, in the flickering light of the fire. It would be a gentle flutter against his skin to remind Reek that his master is a man and not a demon sent from the underworld. Reek doesn’t like to think of Ramsay as a man because that would mean that he’d allowed himself to be fuc...perhaps these feelings are more Theon than Reek.

But no one has to know. No one at all.  


* * *

 

The name Theon Greyjoy is not a name that Reek recognizes anymore. Or one he tries to not recognize. He tries so hard, but somewhere, deep inside, Theon still whispers dark, hateful things.

That name belonged to another man, someone else that Reek is not and never will be.

Reek learns that he must always remember that his name is Reek. Reek is a slow learner, but he learns.

And above all; he learns that he belongs to Ramsay and that he must always be loyal, faithful Reek.

These are things he tells himself every night. He hopes that someday, he can make it real, erase everything he was and become nothing.

Perhaps then the shame and agony will disappear and his heart will rot and die.

 

* * *

 

He brings Ramsay Moat Cailin and when he does, his master becomes a Lord.

Ramsay Snow becomes Roose Bolton’s naturalized son.

Reek has almost never seen him so thrilled, so pleased with himself. Even though Theon Greyjoy is the one who brought him Moat Cailin, even though all Ramsay did was flay the Ironborn who surrendered to Theon Greyjoy.

_You must remember your name. You are not him anymore, you simply played the role Ramsay gave you._

Reek draws a bath for his lord, eyes Ramsay’s body as he steps into the tub. His gaze follows the ever so slight lines of his pectorals, the angles of his hips. Ramsay catches him and his eyes go half-mast, that knowing look that Reek loathes.

“Looking at something?” The new Lord asks lightly, mocking.

“N…no my Lord!” Reek stammers, shame permeating his body.

He shouldn’t look at his master, though it is hard to not let his eyes gaze, as Reek is never around naked bodies anymore. It doesn’t matter that the body is that of a man and that Reek has never been partial to men, but it is his master.

The body before him controls whether Reek lives, eats, shits, bleeds, or dies. Everything about him is important to Reek, even though Reek would rather tear at that midnight black hair than wash it.

“I don’t like to be kept waiting, Reek.” Ramsay sprawls in the tub, letting his head rest against the rim of the tub, his strong arms spread across the sides.

With a jolt, Reek crawls closer to the tub and wets the washrag, shaking as he passes it over his master’s chest. Ramsay sighs under his touch, eyes closed. Reek pays attention to his hands, carefully cleaning every finger, under every fingernail.

It's amazing to hold the hand that has caused Reek so much pain and suffering. Reek cannot believe what these hands have taken from him, these fingers resting in his.

He moves on to his back, watching the muscles dance under Ramsay’s skin as he leans forward to give Reek better access. Theon Greyjoy used to have muscles like that, but Theon was always a tad bit slimmer.

The rise and fall of Ramsay’s chest increases in speed, a slight flush appearing on his neck and upper chest. Reek ignores these signs, knows it is just a male physical reaction to being touched for any duration of time. This has happened during other baths and Reek has gotten by unscathed.

He gently runs his mutilated hands through his master’s hair, wets it, soaps it. It’s so soft.

“Can you…?” Ramsay trails off, but Reek knows.

He digs his fingertips, what remains of them anyway, into his master’s scalp. Ramsay presses into the touch, muscles in his abdomen jumping.

Sitting back when he is done, Reek takes the wet rags to be hung on the far wall, then hovers by the door. “Will that be all, my Lord?”

Ramsay’s eyes are hooded as he opens them, the firelight from the fireplace dancing on his pale skin. He studies his slave from under his lashes, letting out a shaky breath. “Come here, Reek.”

Limping forward, Reek stops beside the tub and Ramsay grabs him by the wrist and yanks him down hard. Reek slams against the side of the tub with a yelp, water splashing them both. “My Lord, I…what…”

Ramsay grimaces. “Stop babbling.”

His grip on Reek’s wrist is bruising and there is a strange look in his grey eyes, like he is prepared to flee. Reek doesn’t understand, his master is nervous about nothing.

The lord pulls Reek’s hand underwater and presses it against something hard and heated.

Something explodes inside of Reek, a mix of horror and outrage.

A desperate tone enters Reek’s voice as he begs, “Please, my lord…don’t…”

 _He hates the word ‘please’, why would you say that,_ Theon thinks inside of Reek.

Reek sobs in shame as Ramsay helps him wrap his fingers around his length, his master inhaling through his teeth sharply. Red colors Ramsay’s cheekbones, dusts across his nose.

“Go ahead, Reek. You can…beg me again. Just…as long as…hah…you touch me. Like this,” Ramsay rasps throatily, guiding Reek’s hand up and down slowly, panting against Reek’s cheek like a stag in rut.

“Please…please don’t make me,” Reek begs, seeing the way Ramsay’s eyes go black, his shark-like grin flashing briefly at Reek's pleadings.

His hips jerk under their joined hands, water splashing over the sides of the tub now with his movements. Reek is terrified that a serving girl will come by to empty the tub water and see them, see him servicing his master in this terribly shameful way.

Theon Greyjoy considers grabbing Ramsay by the neck and holding him under the water, but Reek pushes the violent image away; he knows he can’t best Ramsay Bolton in a hand to hand fight. He learned that lesson well.

If Ramsay was nervous earlier, he has since forgotten, though Reek notices the way he bites his lips to try and keep from making much noise.

 _Why,_ Reek wonders despairingly, _why did he have to choose me? He can have any serving girl he wants. He’s a lord now._

Reek’s arm is cramping, but Ramsay does not stop guiding him. “Touch my, my slit. ahh...”

His thumb brushes over the small hole at the tip of his master’s cock, feels the slick oozing out despite it being under water.

He briefly contemplates digging his ragged thumbnail into the slit of Ramsay’s cock, but he would definitely lose the thumb as a result. Reek needs his thumbs. He would have difficulty pouring his master's wine without a thumb.

Ramsay’s stomach beings to tense and Reek assumes this means he is close to completion. With a snarl, he pushes Reek away and climbs out of the tub, manhandling Reek to the floor. Reek wails, fights weakly, but finds that his master only wants to kneel over his prone form as he releases his seed.

It spurts onto Reek’s chest, covering his shirt, covering him in disgrace. Ramsay lowers his hips so that they are against Reek’s chest, humps against him as he rides out the last waves of his completion with a soft sigh that is more of a desperate whine to Reek’s keen ears.

 _Still afraid someone will find you lowering yourself to forcing your filthy male slave instead of a maid?_ Reek thinks traitorously in a voice that sounds suspiciously like Theon Greyjoy in his head. _I’d be embarrassed too, if I were in your place._

Everyone will see what is on Reek’s shirt and the idea makes him want to cry, makes Reek wish he owned another shirt to wear. He owns nothing, for he is just _filthy, weak Reek_.

Ramsay stares down at Reek with pale eyes, predator eyes. He’s panting hard, staring at Reek like he’s never quite see him before. His voice is thick with anger. “You’re a disgusting whore.”

_Is he...blaming me?_

No matter how many times Reek is debased, it is always things like this that feel like a knife to the heart.

Reek wants to tell his master that a piece of paper means nothing. A pig with makeup is still a pig, no matter how you dress it. Ramsay Bolton is a lowborn sonofabitch with a mean streak a mile wide. Nothing in this world is ever going to change that.


	3. Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters or Game of Thrones. All belong to George R. R. Martin.
> 
> **AN:** I'm so glad that I've finally finished this beast of a chapter (and this fic). I hope you enjoy :D

In the days following the bath incident, Reek’s master is strangely absent.

If Ramsay Bolton were any other man, Reek would imagine that he is being avoided.

However, he is Reek and the only issue his master’s absence brings him is the fact that Reek doesn’t get fed regularly.

The kennelmaster eventually takes pity on him and gives him one of the leftover bowls from the hounds, lets Reek lick it clean. Reek is ever so grateful.

He roams the keep looking for ways to be unnoticed. He has long since given up hope of ever escaping, even with his newfound ability to go around the keep at will. His master will always find him, no matter where he goes in the world. He can even find Reek in his dreams.

No place is safe from his master.

The Bastard’s Boy play games with him whenever they come across Reek. He brings them endless amusement, the tricks they play. Like this moment now, as Skinner is offering to bring Reek a new bucket of cleaning water for Roose Bolton’s main hall.

“Let me get a new bucket for you, Reek. We all know how long it takes for you to totter about,” Skinner says with a mean smile.

He comes back with a fresh bucket even though Reek had imagined that Skinner would end up keeping Reek waiting with no intention of ever coming back. This would have gotten Reek in trouble if he didn’t finish his work on time.

Instead, Skinner returns with Damon, good-looking ill-natured Damon, both laughing with each other. They give Reek the bucket and Skinner tips his nose towards Reek saying, “There you go. Now get to it before Lord Bolton sees you lagging about like a useless shit.”

Damon snickers, covering his sneer with his hand.

Reek sighs and dips his hand into the bucket with his washing rag, but within a few short moments, a horrid burning sensation overtakes his hand. It feels like he has stuck his hand into a flame, as if he has decided to cook his own flesh over a fire.

His sea-green eyes slither over to Skinner and Damon, seeing with sinking horror that both are watching him eagerly. Then, Reek knows. He may be an imbecile, but he knows. With a shriek, he yanks his hand out of the water and moves as fast as he can towards the kitchens where he can rinse his hand off.

Already, the skin is turning red.

Reek cannot run fast, but he does his best, tearing straight past his master, Locke, and the Lord of the Dreadfort in his mad dash. He does not have time to dally, hasn’t seen his master in days, barely sees the unamused expression on his face.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen that creature move so fast,” Locke says, though his voice is faint as Reek scrambles around the corner.

He needs water, he needs to rinse this off fast before it burns through his hand.

“Reek!” His master, yelling after him.

Plunging his hand into the tub of water in the kitchen amid the screaming maids and cooks, Reek slumps in relief against the tub, his burning hand beginning to cool.

A strong hand tangles in his hair quite suddenly and shoves his head into the large tub. Reek fights weakly, struggling against the hold as water quickly fills his lungs. He had not been prepared and had inhaled with a scream just before being plunged under the surface.

When he is brought back up for air, his splutters, vomiting water out of his mouth. “Did you think it was funny to run past my lord father like a witless savage,” his master growls, shaking Reek a bit with his words.

Confusion spins in poor Reek’s mind, he had only been focused on his injury; he had not meant to offend. “My lord…I didn’t mean…my hand…Skinner…”

“Speak clearly, Reek!”

Whining painfully in that bruising grip, Reek wails as Ramsay tries to shove him back underwater, but he stiffens his back against the onslaught, both his hands wrapping visibly around the edge of the tub. Ramsay stiffens, pulls away. “What is wrong with your hand? Answer me, Reek! What trouble have you caused yourself now, you stupid creature.”

His master spins him around, grabs his hand and examines it with concentration, irritation written in the lines of his face. The pain of the touch causes Reek to gasp, tears streaming down his face. In the days that Reek has not seen Ramsay, his master has gone unshaven, an even amount of hair growing on his chin and cheeks. He looks rugged, a little older rather than his usual, deceptively young face.

Those frosty eyes meet Reek’s and Reek trembles inside. “What. Did. You. Do?”

At that moment, Skinner and Damon stroll in, laughing uproariously. Their laughter dies immediately upon seeing Ramsay glaring at them. Reek hangs his head in shame, trying to clutch his injured hand to himself, but his master does not let go. Ramsay is eyeing his men with narrowed eyes.

Damon breaks first under that gaze. “It was a jest! It was funny when he screamed and ran. It wasn’t supposed to cause any real harm.”

Skinner nods in agreement, though he looks nervous as he watches Ramsay’s face.

“A jest?” Quiet. Calm. Death in vocal form.

Damon looks at Skinner now, his eyes darting back and forth. “Yeah. It’s just lye.”

Ramsay shoves Reek’s hand back in the tub. “Don’t you move that hand,” Ramsay snaps at Reek as he leaves his side to approach his men.

Looking Damon up and down slowly, Ramsay says conversationally. “I’ve noticed you have this habit of treating Reek like he is yours to play with. He isn’t.”

“Ramsay, it wasn’t just my idea,” Damon starts with a hysterical note in his voice. “He’s…he’s just a slave.”

The punch to his gut causes him to double over, heaving. Emotionlessly, Ramsay says, “I really don’t care whose idea it was. You put lye in a bucket that Reek was cleaning with and you could have destroyed his hand. That hand belongs to me.”

Damon sinks to the ground, eyes wide. “I’m sorry. Look, he’s okay though, he’s rinsing his hand-”

Ramsay snorts, a cruel sneer twisting his lips. “I ought to use your own whip on you.” He glances at Skinner, who is hanging his head, trying to appear small. “On both of you.”

Both men, both of Reek’s bullies are shaking now, like small schoolboys waiting for punishment. Reek can’t even feel satisfaction for the turned tables; he knows what sorts of punishment his master can come up with and he wishes those punishments on no one.

With a noise of frustration, Ramsay snarls. “Don’t fuck with my belongings without my permission!”

Reek remains in place, hand in water tub. The cooling water helps the burn on his hand. His master ushers both men out of the kitchen, leaving Reek to his own devices.

He wonders if his master has taken them to the dungeon for punishment. The thought makes him shiver.  
  


* * *

 

Later, his master examines his hand more thoroughly, a frown on his face. He puts some salve on it from the Maester, treating the burns in Reek’s flesh. He is quiet, serious and concentrated. He wraps Reek’s hand when he is done.

“Do not get this wet,” Ramsay tells him curtly. “I’m not cutting this hand off because it got infected due to some stupid bollocks my men did to you.”

Reek nods his understanding. It is times like these with his master that he enjoys, if he must enjoy any time with him. Even though his master brings him much pain, he can also ease it.

He’s the only one that ever does. Pain and relief from it only come from the same person in Reek’s small world.  


* * *

 

It takes weeks for his hand to heal, but heal it does.

He’s cleaning the kennels alone, absent of his master’s hounds. The girls are out with the kennelmaster, working on training and repetition so that the cages may be cleaned. It is quiet work and work is good for Reek. Reek can float away from his body for a time, focus on the physical labor that only brings slight discomfort to his aching body.

Water washes away filth, though he doubts any amount of water can wash the filth that is Reek. He has become a lesser being, has become one with filth and shame. Even drowning in Ironman’s Bay cannot cleanse his soul now.

Distantly, he hears footsteps coming his way, a familiar cadence, measured and sure. He knows the sound of those feet anywhere, would never be able to erase the sound from his flayed mind. Reek does not look up from his work; he throws himself into it harder. Perhaps, if he works hard enough, he will escape notice.

The front gate of the kennels creaks to a close and Reek shuts his eyes as he hears the scratch of a key in the lock. Hoping for escape is folly, stupid Reek should have known. There is no room for hope in this place.

Achingly familiar boots stop beside his form as he keeps his head lowered, scraggly hair over his eyes. His hair; it is turning pale and horrid. Reek used to have such lovely hair, when he was someone else. Someone he is not anymore.

“Reek. Where are your manners? I’m feeling neglected.”

That voice. Light, lilting. It fills Reek’s days and nights with horror and misery. And, sometimes with desperate love, because Reek cannot help but feel elation every time he is given a reprieve, a gift, or a nice meal. It is sick, wrong, unacceptable. The very man who has ruined him, has brought him low, is also the same man who can give him brief moments of absolution in this hell that he has made for Reek.

The pain is eternal, so the moments without pain feel like love even though Reek knows it is not.

He’s just a desperate creature, desperate for a shred of humanity that does not hurt to touch…and his master is so painful.

Reek raises his head with slow motions, shaking now. What mood is his master in today? Reek does not know. “My lord. Reek is sorry. He is stupid and…and dull! He did not hear you enter.”

Ramsay’s steel grey eyes flicker and he looks up and to the left briefly, thinking, or mentally laughing at Reek. Reek is unsure. His master is so complex. He is well aware that Reek had heard him enter, though what he does with the blatant lie is in his hands.

“Never mind that. Stop sniveling, Reek, I’m not going to beat you. I thought we’d try something new today.” Ramsay’s eyes widen, manic grin in place. “How does that sound? Fun? Yes?”

Reek nods wildly, afraid, because new is not always good. New is dangerous and he prefers the demon he knows.

His master is looking down at him, something in his gaze that Reek doesn’t quiet recognize. “The gate is locked,” Ramsay whispers under his breath, speaking to himself rather than Reek.

He crouches down to be level with Reek, looking down his nose at him. His gloved hand rests on Reek’s shoulder gently, though Reek still flinches at the contact. “You’ve been a good dog, lately. You know that?”

“I…I hope so…my Lord.”

“I wanted us to try something again. Something Theon Greyjoy would never do. Wouldn’t that be nice, if you could do something a Prince couldn’t?”

Reek does not like where this conversation is leading, it is leading straight into the dark. Somewhere filled with pain and helpless screams. Reek nods hesitantly, even though his mind is screaming _no_. His master does that strange, quick smile of his before standing up. He strategically makes sure they are towards the back of the dark kennels, his back facing the gate.

_The gate is locked. Oh please, not this again. Please don’t ask me,_ Reek thinks with a sick feeling rolling in his stomach, the kind of sick feeling that makes him thinks he’s going to lose control of his bowels. When Ramsay stands, unlaces his breeches, Reek has to bite his tongue to keep from sobbing openly.

So, it is to be this, the one thing Reek has staunchly fought against doing. He can’t, he can’t, he just _can’t_.

“Show me what a good dog you are,” Ramsay utters lowly, staring down at Reek, hand running up and down his own manhood softly, feather light. “It’s time you learn how to please me with that filthy mouth of yours.”

Reek stares and stares, frozen in place. Shame and fury fill his body as it usually does when in these sorts of situations. He does not want to be used as a woman, does not want to be this man’s whore. Every part of Reek has always feared this, remembers the feeling of hopelessness and disgrace that had filled Theon Greyjoy when he had been mounted.

 “Reek,” Ramsay says, clearly attempting to sound persuasive, “Just wrap your lips around it. That’s all. _Very_ simple.”

He knows he cannot beg or say please; those words would set the other man off. Reek inches forward, but makes a sad noise in his throat; he just can’t. Ramsay sighs, still handling himself as he looks down at Reek. “Don’t make me hurt you, Reek. You will eat well tonight if you just do this one, very small thing for me. I can be good to you.”

His free hand settles into Reek’s hair and gently brings him forward, rubbing the tip of his cock against Reek’s lips. It’s heated, wet at the tip. Leaking fluid and Reek doesn’t want to know what it tastes like, he doesn’t want it in his mouth, even though his master would be utterly ecstatic that Reek finally gave in to this one deed.

“Open, Reek. Take me in, puppy.” Voice thick, husky.

_He has balls, trying this with me again,_ Theon sneers in Reek’s head. Reek squashes Theon down, begs him to behave, to not make Reek do something awful.

With a sniffle, Reek opens his mouth and slowly takes him master in, tastes salt and skin on his tongue. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, has never dreamed of taking a man’s cock in his mouth. It’s like a weapon sheathed in velvet, soft on his tongue, but hard and throbbing with blood. His master’s head falls back with an awed gasp.

The exposed lines of his throat are beautiful and Theon imagines running a blade over it. Reek silences that thought quickly.

Reek tries to pretend he is not doing what he is doing, pretends he hasn’t the foggiest idea of what his mouth is preoccupied with. He suckles, lets his saliva coat the appendage, gags on it as it hits the back of his throat.

Unfortunately, his master ruins the illusion by talking.

“I can be so good,” Ramsay whispers, a hitch in his voice.

This is the problem; Reek is not good. Reek is not a good dog; he is a mutt and he cannot behave even when he knows he should.

Reek does not think; he merely closes his jaw. Not too hard, but hard enough to send his master screaming. A fist comes out of nowhere, slamming into his face and for a moment stars dance across his gaze. “You little…ughn!” Ramsay growls incoherently, looking pale and nauseas, clutching at himself.

Reek lies dazed on the floor, head reeling from the hard blow to his temple. His master is making an awful noise, a pained one, looking at him with murderous eyes. “It’s almost like you want to be punished,” Ramsay pants, awkwardly hovering over Reek’s form, “Is that it?”

It’s far too late to beg for mercy, but Reek does it anyway. He has brought this upon himself. “No…please…no, my lord. I’ll do…anything…but that…please!”

Ramsay grabs him roughly, snarling. “When will you learn that saying please gets you nowhere? I want you to suck my cock and I want you to do it now. If you cannot do that, I will just have to find another way to entertain myself with you. One that will hurt far worse. What will it be, Reek? What does my little ‘Prince’ choose?”

He presses Reek’s face back against his now flaccid manhood, shaking with rage. Reek sobs against him, tries to tell himself that he should just do it, it can’t possibly hurt any worse than a blade. It’s his pride that is getting in the way again, that dreadful pride that can only belong to Theon Greyjoy.

Reek turns his face slightly, looks at the cock that is now marred with teeth marks, tries to think of putting it in his mouth…but cannot. He cries even harder and crumples in his master’s grip. Ramsay lets out the breath that he had been holding and releases Reek, tucking himself away.

“I’m so repulsive that you would rather go back on the rack? You’ll change your mind,” Ramsay says lowly, irritably.

These are dangerous waters, the kind you drown in; Reek has robbed his master of what his master had wanted. Now, Reek will suffer a worse fate.

_Why…why couldn’t I just do as he asked?_

So, this is where Reek finds himself hours after. He is strapped down, naked once more. He’s been tied down for some time, pain his ever-faithful companion. He smells something burning, it almost smells tasty. His mouth waters; he hasn’t had good meat in so long.

It isn’t until his mind tells him, _that’s your flesh you smell, he’s branding you, you know_. With disinterest, Reek floats above his body, dissociated. He can smell fresh meat as his master furiously uses a hot poker to burn the letter ‘R’ onto his hip. He draws the letter with slow drags of the red hot poker tip. The burns will scar. The pain is not Reek’s, it belongs to the body and right now the body is not him.

It is not Reek and Theon is dead, so it can’t be him either.

“What is it going to take, huh?” His master rasps furiously as he burns into Reek’s quivering flesh. “What will it take to strip this pride from you?”

_You’d have to kill me,_ Reek thinks, though the voice in his head sounds like Theon.  
  


* * *

 

Reek is not much help in the kitchens, so he oft avoids the area except for when he is asked to help clean and scrub the floors. This is where he finds himself when a maid struggles to pull in an elk carcass for the feast tonight. She has beautiful red hair, the kind Theon always liked…before. He tries to not watch her with interest as she struggles to pull it towards the main slab where they will dress the carcass and cut it to pieces.

She pulls and pulls, but she isn’t very large, she’s rather petite, and Reek figures she’s being hazed by the other kitchen workers, she must be new. He’s never seen her before and he’d remember her.

Her stunning, grass green eyes light on him, freckles dusting her cheeks. Her nose wrinkles at the sight of him, but she gestures helplessly to the carcass. “I’ve been asked to bring it in and get it on the counter…but it’s too heavy.”

_And she thinks Reek looks strong enough to lift the thing?_ Reek thinks this dubiously.

“Can…can you help?”

He comes to stand beside her, tries to not be offended when she covers her nose. With combined strength, they are able to help her complete her task. She gives him a hesitant smile, thanks him.

After this turn of events, Reek sees more of the serving girl around the castle. She always blesses him with that light smile of hers, friendly and open despite the fact that Reek is a disgusting creature. He had showed her a moment of kindness and it appears that she has taken his help seriously.

“They don’t feed you much here, do they?” She asks him in passing one day on her way to the granary.

Reek shivers. Doesn’t shake his head, doesn’t agree. That would be dangerous. “The master feeds me. When I deserve it. I don’t often deserve it.”

She frowns, a twist of those perfect lips. “That’s rather silly. You’re a man serving the household; you should be fed for the work you do. Here, take this,” she holds out a large loaf of bread.

Reek shakes his head, feels his body shiver. “Not a man. The master is kind. He treats me well. Reek is bad. He cannot take your bread. Reek, it rhymes with freak.”

“Oh, stop! We all know what he is. A bas-”

“Don’t!” Reek interrupts desperately. “Don’t say that word. He’ll know. He knows everything.”

She forces the bread into his hand. “Eat it now, fast. I’ll keep lookout.”

With terror shaking his body, Reek eats the forbidden food as the maid keeps watch for the Bastard’s Boys or the lord himself. When he’s done, she looks at him with a studious gaze. “You have beautiful eyes,” she says softly. “Like the sea; someone could get lost there.”

_No,_ Reek wants to tell her _, you’re beautiful._

After that time, he sees her far more than he should and he wonders if the girl is seeking him out on purpose. He cannot fathom why, he’s disgusting, a foul creature. She brings him food, helps tide over the hunger in his belly. She works near him whenever she can, singing lovely songs in a clear voice.

He enjoys her, this light in his unending darkness.

It’s all perfectly innocent, aside from the food part. That’s done in complete secrecy. This all works perfectly fine for weeks until one day while they are cleaning the great hall. She’s singing, this girl, this Helena.

Reek pauses in his work, watches her, watches her lips as she shapes the words. He daydreams, for she is a lovely girl and she is so kind and thoughtful to him. He’s so lost staring at her that he doesn’t even notice the shadow that fills the entrance, the shadow that goes still, staring at him.

Watching him watch the girl with stars in his sea-green eyes.

Reek does not notice even as the shadow leaves silently, as if it had never been there.  
  


* * *

  
It does not last, Reek’s time with sweet Helena.

He should have known that she would never be safe near him.

“Let’s go for a walk, Reek. There’s something I’ve been meaning to show you,” Ramsay says lightly, eyes glittering like pale stars.

The pit of Reek’s stomach only grows emptier as they slowly make their way to the stairs that lead to the dungeon. “My…my lord?” Reek asks, pausing in his step.

He hasn’t done anything wrong.

“Keep walking,” Ramsay snaps, his cool demeanor finally falling away, revealing anger.

They descend down the stairs together and Reek nearly withers like a dying plant when he hears the sobs below. When they enter the dungeon, the air evaporates in Reek’s lungs and he heaves, can’t breathe.

On the cross is Helena, naked, whip marks running up and down her body. Reek makes a horrid sound in his throat, the sound of a dying dog, stepping forward towards her. Barely stopping himself under his master’s furious gaze.

Reek looks at her beautiful, fiery hair, the soft freckles on her milky skin. Something inside of him screams, images of blood and gore flashing through his mind. He can almost imagine her eyes red with tears, the red of her muscles bright where the flesh has been removed. She hasn’t been flayed yet, but Reek knows everything is possible with his master.

He cannot be responsible for this; Reek has enough nightmares keeping him company.

“You see, I’d wondered why you were gaining more weight, Reek.” Ramsay starts calmly, picking up a knife in his hand, leaving Reek’s side to go beside Helena. “It certainly wasn’t on my account. I’d also noticed a change in you, how you’d stop sniveling around like a kicked dog. I just couldn’t figure it out. What had changed my loyal beast?”

Ramsay backhands the girl on the rack hard and she begins to cry harder. “Loyal beast?” Ramsay continues with a sneer. “Unfaithful slut, more like. Imagine my surprise, seeing you following this girl around like a bitch in heat.”

“My…my lord…she didn’t know. It’s not…her fault,” Reek whimpers, tears blurring his vision. He cannot bear to see her tortured.

Ramsay barks with a bitter laugh. “She didn’t know?” He steps closer to Helena, places a hand around her neck. “You didn’t know that he’s mine? Did he somehow give you the impression that he’s yours? I can’t say I’m surprised, he’s a good liar. Or, was a good liar, once.”

The blade starts moving without warning.

The sound begins, ear-shattering as it ricochets off the walls. It sounds like an animal being killed, but it is only a teenage serving girl having her hand flayed. She looks at Reek desperately, her lovely eyes begging.

It’s his fault that she’s here. He should have never taken the food from her. He will do what he can to save her, to put himself at his lord’s mercy. He will make it up to Ramsay, he will soothe his injured ego. He will give him what he knows his master wants.

With his throat tight and his heart trying to tear from his ribcage, Reek throws himself at his master’s feet and presses his open mouth to Ramsay’s crotch.

His lord freezes, body jerking.

Reek cannot bear to watch this poor girl be harmed, this girl who has shown so much kindness to him. With shame and disgust warring inside of his body, he mouths his master’s soft cock through his clothes, feels the way it begins to fill with blood.

“What are you doing?” Ramsay asks, voice high and strange.

Reek does not answer, just continues, tries to think of things whores used to do to him to get him riled up and ready. He presses his tongue against the line of Ramsay’s manhood through his breeches, run it up and down.

He dares a glance up at his master and sees disbelief, which eventually gives way to victorious elation. “Let…let me…please you my lord. I’ll show you how…sorry I am,” Reek says with despair.

Ramsay steps away from Helena, gestures for Reek to move with him. He looks at him with sudden suspicion. “How do I know you won’t use teeth this time?”

Reek kneels on the floor, grasps his master’s thighs and rests his face against his clothed cock. “Reek won’t. Not this time. He’ll…he will use his tongue. His throat. You can use him. Just show her mercy.”

He does not see the face his master pulls at the mention of the maid, the glare he sends her way, still strapped to the cross. Her eyes are closed, does not want to see this travesty occurring in front of her, does not want to see Reek’s humiliation.

When Ramsay finally puts his cock in Reek’s mouth, Reek puts his all into the job. It’s hard for him to take his master into his throat, but he tries his best, gags and chokes around his cock, saliva dribbling out of his lips as Ramsay thrusts into his mouth.

He can taste his master on his tongue, his excitement, there’s so much of it leaking from him. Reek swirls his tongue around the organ, tries to not listen to the way Ramsay gasps and moans for him. It last for just under ten minutes, though it seems like an hour to Reek.

His lips are bruised and red, his jaw aches and Ramsay pants like a dog as he holds his head. He doesn’t thrust wildly, like Reek imagined he would, rather he seems to savor the act, slowly pressing in deep and staying there for a bit before pulling further out. He likes Reek’s tongue in his slit, whines when Reek digs his tongue into it.

“I want you to swallow it, Reek,” Ramsay says thickly, that aroused tone. “I want my seed in your fucking belly.”

Helena makes a disgusted noise in the background, slight, but Reek hears it. His master doesn’t appear to care what she thinks of them, acting like animals in the dungeon.

“Your sloppy fucking mouth… _ughn_ …I want it on my cock every morning, Reek.” Ramsay is saying, his hips beginning to stutter, closer to the edge. Saying things he’s never say aloud otherwise. Saying things he probably doesn’t even mean, just likes being disgusting in general. “Every morning I want you just like this, your mouth on my cock so I can feed you fucking breakfast. Belly full of it.”

Against his will and his better judgement, Reek feels heat building in his belly, a twinge where his scar is. _He’s so vile, why does Ramsay have to be so vile?_

When he comes down Reek’s throat, he groans deliriously. When he steps away from Reek, he smiles widely, looking at Reek’s hand, which to Reek’s horror has found its way between his own legs. He’d been rubbing his own aching scar tissue without even realizing it and flushes in horror, snatching his hand away from his shameful place.

Reek remains on the ground, ashamed, hating how he’d just allowed himself to be used like a woman again, how he’d begun to enjoy it, the sound of his master’s pleasure, the things he’d said. Reek is a monster and his master is just as bad.

With a sigh, Ramsay tucks himself away and looks at Helena. “Oh. I haven’t forgotten about you, dear.”

Red everywhere, blood blood blood. All Reek sees is crimson as it spills to the floor.

Ramsay cuts her throat and Reek cries out in horror. “Wh…why? I did what you wanted? Reek was…g..good!”

The light fades from her beautiful eyes.

His master looks sated, satisfied. He stares down at Reek’s sobbing form and sighs, running a hand through his dark hair. “I was merciful, you stupid dog. You should have known that either way, your actions would cause her death.”

Tears streak down Reek’s filthy face as he trembles, full body cries wracking his abused throat. “But _why_?”

The look on his master’s face is unreadable, nothing in those eyes. “Because, you adored her. And she saw what you did to me. You know how maids talk. And she would have talked.”

Ridiculously, Reek covers his eyes, hates the taste in his mouth. “You could have cut her tongue out. She wouldn’t have talked!” _She could have lived._

An ugly look fills his master’s unsympathetic eyes. “Ah, yes. So, you could still pine after her from afar? I think not, Reek. I think not.”  


* * *

 

Days later, they do the _other_ thing again. The one that hurts, tears painfully. In the stables, when Reek isn’t expecting it. The thing that happened to Theon Greyjoy, the thing that reduced him to nothing but dishonor and worthlessness.

Reek cowers, begs, says no plenty of times, but his master only laughs quietly and informs him that he’s happy to put Reek back on the rack instead. He’s happy to cut more pieces away, if Reek would prefer that.

Reek doesn’t.

_He stuffs his gloves in my mouth like I’m the one who needs them to be quiet,_ Reek thinks with Theon Greyjoy’s sarcastic voice as Ramsay Bolton rides him from behind.

Ramsay’s hips move fast, short little movements, wants to be done before he’s caught doing what he’s currently doing to his disgusting prisoner turned slave.

When he’s done, Ramsay leaves, gone like the sun in winter, as if he had never been.

Reek feels used, feels worse than a whore. He is in fact, worse than a whore; Reek doesn’t even get paid.

He doesn’t want to be caught, Reek realizes. Even though these horrid acts have been escalating over the past few months, Ramsay Bolton does not want his father to hear what he’s been doing with his prisoner. The strange want his prisoner has set on fire inside of him.

If only he could simply sate his urges with whores, but for some reason they never seem to be enough. Something about Reek drives him mad, angry, lust and rage wrapped into one. He fucks his creature like he wants to crawl into his body and tear his heart out, tear his spine straight out of his back and wear it like a trophy.

Reek’s rear is sore once more and he’s so queasy that he vomits bile in far stall. While the horses chew their hay and feed, Reek tries to tell himself that it isn’t his body, that nothing happened to him, it’s just a nightmare, but the wet trickle in his nether regions will not let it be so.

A bit of his heart breaks a little more and he curls in on himself. The feeling of being used will not leave him alone and he wraps his frail arms around himself as a form of self-soothing.

 

* * *

 

Things only degrade from there and Reek is horrified to find that even though the fucking and sucking is terrible and humiliating, there are even worse things his master can come up with. His imagination is endless. Despite the fact that Ramsay appears to resent his sick want for Reek, he does not leave Reek be.

His lord is drunk, very drunk. Ramsay’s face is flushed, red delicately spread across his nose and cheekbones. It’s a strip of red that would belong on a virgin maid about to be deflowered, not a man with a taste for blood.

Reek watches him, shakes nervously.

“Reek. Undress…your…lord.” The sentence is stilted with drink, though Ramsay always has had a very precise way of speaking. Tasting every word. It’s only more pronounced with spirits.

This request isn’t unusual per say, as Reek often dresses and undresses his master. However, the look in his master’s eyes speak of something else here tonight. He’s painfully drunk, sways on his feet, eyes soft with alcohol.

Reek can nearly taste the wine on his breath as he undresses his master, tries to not feel those hungry eyes on his face. “Everything, Reek. Even the small clothes,” Ramsay slurs.

When he is completely naked, he staggers away from Reek, lies on his stomach on the thick bear rug in front of the fire. His fingers, those deft, dangerous fingers, bury themselves in the fur. “My lord?” Reek asks, unsure of what to do.

Reek wants to run.

“I want…I want you to do…something awful to me,” Ramsay says so quietly that Reek wonders if he said anything at all.

His insides flip nervously, with disgust and worry. Is this a game? What is the right answer?

“I…would never want to hurt you, m…master.” Reek stutters out, body tensing with uncertainty.

Ramsay scoffs sarcastically into the fur rug.  

“Locke mentioned something at the feast. Something a whore had done to him recently. It…it was fucking disgusting. I want you to do it.”

Oh, this cannot be good. This cannot bode well for poor Reek at all.

“Whatever my master asks,” Reek replies dutifully, eyes downcast.

Inside, he’s a mess. Falling apart at the seams. He wants to be left alone, he wants to go sleep in the kennels unscathed.

“Locke said…he said. _Agh_. Fuck.” The hesitation is strange. Reek waits for his master to continue. “He said the girl licked him. Back there. Used her fingers…inside to make him spill his seed. Said it was one of the most intense climaxes he’s had.”

The world tilts a bit for Reek. He needs some wine for this. He needs all the wine in the world for this. “My…lo…lord. Are you sure?” This cannot be right. He can’t possibly-

“Of course, I’m sure!” Ramsay snaps, steel finally entering his voice. “And if you do something I don’t like, I’ll just cut your hand off.”

Horror slides down into Reek’s belly, sitting there like soured milk. So that is to be the game. It’s always a game of course. Theon- no, Reek has never been with a man himself, has no idea how to pleasure a man from behind. All Theon… _Reek_ …experienced was pain…back there. “My…hand, my Lord?”

Pale eyes stare at Reek fuzzily as Ramsay turns his head to look at him. “Yes. Your hand, Reek. I’ll cut it off with a dull blade, too. That would take a long time. If I were you, I’d make sure I enjoy myself thoroughly.”

Reek waits, stares at his master’s naked form, lying there on the rug. This must be a jape. His master will kill him for this when he comes to his senses.

“Are you waiting for something?” The tone is snide, though slightly slurred.

“No…no my lord.” Reek drops heavily to his wobbly knees beside his prone master, nervous eyes running over his naked flesh.

Despite the warmth of the chamber, cold is sliding through Reek’s flesh, eating at his bones. Terror is a powerful taste on the back of Reek’s tongue; there is so much here that can go wrong. One wrong move and his mercurial master will flay his hand, cut it off.

With shaking hands, Reek reaches forward, grasps the firm cheeks in front of him. His master stiffens at the contact and as a result, Reek flinches away with apologies, worried, he’s done something wrong already…

“Your hands are cold. Stop…panicking,” comes the sleepy tone. “I’m waiting for that nasty tongue of yours, Reek. Where is it?”

Reek hesitates. “My- my lor-”

“I hear your tongue wagging, but I don’t fucking feel it, Reek.” Ramsay’s voice drops, a dangerous edge entering his tone. “Don’t make me ask again.”

Without another word, Reek grasps his master’s hips and pulls him back slightly, using his hands to spread him open to Reek’s tongue. Without thought, Reek presses the flat of his tongue to the small, impossibly small muscle.

“ _Oh_ ,” his master breathes out in shock.

Reek freezes, but believes it to be a good sign. His master tastes like flesh, so the task is only humiliating rather than horrible. He tells himself to work the muscle like he would a maid’s cunt, swirls his tongue, writes his name, _Reek_ , not Theon, though that would be an entertaining irony to write the forbidden name there.

He listens carefully to the soft sighs and observes the desperate push of his master’s hips as he presses spit against the tight ring of muscle. If his master is going to want him to…touch him inside…he’ll need to be lubricated with what Reek has to offer. His master has never believed in lubrication before and Reek imagines he expects nothing but saliva.

“I…put your tongue in me. Now.” A command, though one with a needy tone that Reek has rarely ever heard.

Reek does as he is bade, pressing his tongue in, fucking his tongue in and out as his master presses back against him. Ramsay presses his face into the crook of his arm, a shy gesture Theon Greyjoy had often seen in maid’s when he tongued them. They wanted to hide from their want, embarrassed about displaying it so obviously.

His master becomes boneless under his ministrations and slowly, Reek calms, does not fear quite so terribly that his master is not enjoying himself, that Reek is performing well. He’s not sure how much time he spends with his face buried there, but it doesn’t take long for him to feel his master handling himself under Reek’s ministrations.

“Fingers now, Reek. And be fucking careful,” Ramsay says, though there is little threat in his tone.

This is the part that Reek has been dreading. Fear prickles on his skin again as he pulls away, making sure to coat his master and his fingers with as much saliva as possible. _Oh, please let him not mind a little discomfort…_

Reek’s single digit enters his body slowly, carefully. Oh so carefully. His eyes watch in terror and awe as his master’s body accepts him. He glances at Ramsay’s brow and notices the slight furrow there, most likely getting used to the foreign feeling.

Searching with his finger, Reek gently rubs his finger along his master’s soft, warm insides. “Another, Reek. I’m not a fucking girl,” Ramsay mutters into the rug.

With a sharp inhale Reek adds another with care, watches the way his master stiffens at the increased stretch.

Reek’s mouth dries. “Is this…okay? Are you okay?”

His fingers search and search until they come across something that makes his master arch his back and make a stifled noise of surprise. Unbelievably, his master’s hips press back against Reek’s fingers.

“Why are you asking me stupid questions? Just… _ah_ … _mmff_ …”

Reek thought it was obvious _why_ , but his master had clearly already forgotten his threat. A light sheen of sweat begins to form on Ramsay’s skin and Reek does not think it is solely from the fireplace beside them. His master’s forehead rests on the rug, back arched slightly, mouth open and panting.

Reek tries to not find him attractive, but he fails.

He presses his fingers in again, slow and careful, staring at his lord’s body, making sure there is no sign of pain or discomfort there. He is warm and tight inside, tighter than any whore Theon Greyjoy ever touched. Reek does not think about what it would have felt like, if he still had a cock to please him with.

_He didn’t want your cock to please him, that’s why he took it away,_ Theon grits out in Reek’s mind.

Scissoring his two fingers, Reek twists his wrist a little, brushing the rough pads of his fingers over the spot inside of his master that causes him to shiver. This appears to be the thing Reek had needed to find. “Harder,” Ramsay hisses under his breath.

Inhaling deeply, nervously, Reek withdraws his fingers slightly before pushing in harder, drilling in like he would if he were fingering a whore. He picks up a steady press against his master’s inner walls, listening to the sound of his breathing as it picks up steadily, the soft grunts and sighs.

A strong hand grabs Reek’s free wrist. His hand is placed on his master’s cock, wet and weeping. “Touch me, dammit,” Ramsay rasps, pressing back against Reek’s fingers and then forward into his hand.

What a sight they must make, Reek thinks. He’s behind his master with a hand around his cock and fingers in his rear. If Reek had a cock, he would already be in him, fucking him open, making him gasp like a fucking maid-

_No…not Theon…Theon isn’t here,_ Reek reminds himself, cutting off that train of thought.

“Your cock leaves much…to be desired…Reek,” his master pants out, hips moving back against the palm of Reek’s hand.

“I…I’m sorry?”

A groan of frustration. “Do I need to spell it out for you? Give me more.”

Reek watches the way his body trembles as he works in a third finger, pressing his own hips forward as he thrusts the fingers deeper, harder against the spot his master enjoys. His thighs press against the backs of his master’s and Ramsay makes a strangled noise and Reek moves his own body in time with the press of his hand.

Unbidden, heat begins to coil in Reek’s belly. The tissue that remains of what was once his cock flushes, aches.

“Fu-” The word is bitten off, Ramsay’s balls tightening, drawing up.

_He’s close. It looks like he’s pleased with this performance,_ Reek thinks with detached, yet heated eyes. If his master releases his seed, Reek will keep his hand, no doubt.

_Or, he’ll take it out of spite, out of regret for what you’ve done to him,_ Theon sneers in the back of Reek’s mind.

Reek adds more spit to the tight entrance, bending down a little to press his mouth to it, against his fingers, tongue pushing copious amounts of saliva in. Reek’s master whines, groaning at the sound of Reek’s fingers sloppily entering his body.

“Gods, just…faster, Reek. Right there, ye…yes. Don’t you fucking…change the pace. _Hn_.” Voice low, starving.

His body tenses completely and Reek knows before the cry happens that his master is about to release. Reek jams his fingers in hard against that secret place and is rewarded. Ramsay’s cock pulses in his hand as he spurts against the furs, cursing darkly. Reek can feel the solid heat of his length; he can feel his master’s heart pounding there. He can feel his heart from the inside as well.

It’s strange, to feel his heart. Reek didn’t think Ramsay had one.

The only sound in the room is their rough breathing. Reek’s arms are so tired, but he slowly pulls away despite the exhausted shake to his limbs.

“Did…did I please you, my Lord?”

Those eyes, so like ash, examine Reek clearly for the first time that night. The look there…makes Reek wonder (and not for the first time) if his master still sees Theon Greyjoy in him. If sometimes Ramsay looks at him and sees a Prince and _wants wants wants_ before he _hates hates hates_. Pale eyes close, satisfied.

“ _Tsch_ …just…shut…your whore mouth. Reek.”

Reek watches in mortified detachment as his lord nuzzles into the bear fur deeper, his body going heavy with sleep.

Reek does not sleep a wink that night, terrified that if he does, he will wake up on the cross again. When dawn breaks, he slips out discreetly, puts himself to work scrubbing the kitchen floors. Out of sight, out of mind for his master.

His master had been drunk the night before and he can only hope that he has no recollection of what he asked his Reek to do.

_He’d probably take my tongue, but I think he enjoys it too much,_ Theon Greyjoy thinks cruelly, a hot blade in Reek’s muddled mind. 

 

* * *

 

Reek hears them talking one day, the Bastard’s Boys.

“I heard he’s used the creature as a woman before.”

“No. No way. Where is the thrill in that? You know he loves hunting down those peasant women…it’s his favorite pastime.”

“Oh, yeah?” Sounds like Alyn. “What do you think his other favorite pastime is?”

_Asserting his power over Reek, torturing him, making him less of a man day by day,_ Reek thinks sadly, hating the way these men are talking about him.

“Do you think he’d let us give it a try?” Damon, can’t mistake Damon’s voice.

A snort. Skinner. “If you want to fuck the creature, that’s on you. But I’m telling you; I wouldn’t even dare asking.”

Reek hopes that Damon does not ask.  
  
  


* * *

  
It appears that Damon does have the balls to ask, one night, after the group of men are drunk and Lord Roose Bolton is not in the Dreadfort. The Bastard’s Boy and Ramsay Bolton have taken up residence in the main feasting hall, drinking and eating themselves into a stupor when late into the night, Reek is told to bring more wine to them by a tired servant.

With nervous shakes, Reek brings wine to the hall after he leaves where he was sleeping in the kennels. The hall is warm, lit by many candles, food that smells delicious all over the tables. His mouth waters, though his gaze finds his master, seated at the head of the table.

His father’s usual place.

Things go silent as Reek serves the wine, feels multiple pairs of eyes on him as they all watch him in a strange quiet. Usually, they all ignore his presence when he waits on them, but this is something different.

“Well,” Ramsay says with a sarcastic look at Damon, every word measured. “Here he is. As asked. I cannot wait to see your prowess.”

Damon is looking at Reek with hazy eyes, excited eyes. Ramsay is watching Damon with an unamused look. His pale eyes cut over to Reek very suddenly and Reek’s heartrate speeds up. “Reek. Damon is curious about your boycunt. How about you drop your trousers and show us the goods.”

Reek shakes so hard that he nearly drops the flagon of wine. He stares and stares, unable to move. His muscles are frozen, his teeth are chattering. “My…my lord?”

He couldn’t have heard him right.

His master tilts his head and smirks, midnight hair falling over his brow. “Don’t make me ask again.”

The sound of a suffocating animal sounds in Reek’s chest as he sets down the wine and turns his back to the group of seated men. Tears begin to flood his eyes as he clumsily unlaces his trousers and lets them fall to the ground. Shame burns through his body; hates being seen as an object for their sick amusement.

“Bend over and grab your ankles,” Ramsay says calmly, control apparent.

With a sob, Reek does so, silently begging for his master to change his mind. “Spread those cheeks, Reek. Show Damon that slutty hole of yours.”

Tears splatter onto the stone floor as Reek opens himself to their gazes. He wonders how many of them are repulsed by the display. Suddenly, hands other than his own are on him, big hands. Strange hands. Reek is turned around so that he now faces the group, sees himself looking up at Damon himself.

The big blonde man grins widely. “We’re going to have some fun, you and I, Reek.”

_Oh no. He’s not…he’s not really going to let him use me, is he?_ Reek looks at his master in despair, teary eyes begging desperately.

His master has moved to a new chair, one closer to the scene. He sits with his legs spread wide, casual, one elbow on the table to his left as he looks on. “Get on with it,” he says to Damon with a bored tone, gesturing with his hand vaguely.

Damon looks far too pleased with himself as he grabs the plate of butter off the table, digging his fingers into it. Reek figures he knows what this means and for a moment is stunned; his bully intends to prepare him instead of fucking him dry. Ramsay never prepares Reek, so this is utterly perplexing.

_Perhaps…perhaps the pain will not be so bad._

Ramsay’s brow furrows as he watches Damon’s actions. “What are you doing? You asked to fuck my slave, not my delicate princess.”

Damon dips his fingers in the butter generously and Reek is grateful. Things could be so much worse, he tells himself. His master could demand far worse things. Damon shakes his head at Ramsay as he gestures his fingers towards Reek’s shivering form. “And chafe my meat? No _chance_! You fuck ‘im how you like and I’ll fuck ‘im how I like, aye?”

If he notices the subtle roll and flutter of Ramsay’s eyes, Damon does not comment. Reek notices though.

_Please don’t let him think his man is going easy on me,_ Reek thinks desperately.

Those large fingers spread Reek’s cheeks and Reek tries to hide inside his mind. The humiliation, the laughter of the other men…is terrible. Horrible. Without much preamble, Damon pushes his first finger in, wiggles it around a bit before adding a second. He has large hands, big digits.

Reek grits his teeth, does not whine, does not beg. He has suffered far worse pain than this, though the mortification is nearly unbearable. He isn’t sure how he will walk through this keep again with all the laughing and mocking eyes following him.

His master is sitting in his chair, a cruel sneer on his lips as he watches Reek being opened up. “Damon’s being rather kind to you, isn’t he, Reek? Perhaps you should thank him.”

What Reek hears hidden in that sentence is; _do you think he’s kinder than me?_

The other men laugh, cruel snickers and japes following.

_Thank him for preparing me for rape? I’d rather die a slow death._ Theon thinks this before Reek can suppress it.

Reek hangs his head miserably, croaks out, “Thank you, Damon. Reek is undeserving.”

“Oh, stop your babbling,” Damon mutters, thrusting in a third finger, causing Reek to emit a groan of pain finally.

Then, the fingers are gone and something larger is pushing in. Dread fills Reek’s belly, cold, like being lost in a winter night alone, surrounded by hungry wolves.

The sensation is different than what Reek has experienced before. The butter helps ease the way and the stretch is only a slight discomfort after the preparation. There is no burning sensation, rough friction of dry skin entering his dry body. Reek shudders because his mind decides that this is a humiliation he can bear; he isn’t being torn open and Damon isn’t completely without finesse.

His body is large, hovering over Reek. He can feel the heat radiating from Damon’s body, the warmth is comforting. Reek is always so cold in the kennels, alone and afraid. The rags his master has given him are not much, but he is grateful that he has them at all.

Reek should not be greedy; he can only take what he gets.

The slide of the cock inside of Reek is steady, testing. Damon is trying something new and is still marveling over how tight his master’s creature is. “This is different…never fucked a whore that…ah…felt like this.”

There is laughter, but Reek does not concern himself with the amusements of his master’s men. He is lesser and unworthy, but there is a place inside of him the screams in outrage at this abuse, this debasement of his body.

Damon’s hips begin to pick up their pace, his hands tight on Reek’s bony hips; there will undoubtedly be bruises. His manhood is thick and touches all the right places inside of Reek, it appears. Inexplicably, Reek begins to feel a strange tingle in his belly, a slow slide of heat building inside of him. His eyes water in humiliation as a sound escapes his lips, a sound that is close to a moan. Damon’s hips stutter for a moment, shocked, but he continues on. Figures whores are supposed to make noises like that anyway. Whores pretend pretty well too, so why not this creature?

_No…no…this can’t happen…I can’t…_ Reek’s mind tries to shut down, to hide from what he feels, because he doesn’t want this, he doesn’t want this! Damon’s cock is sliding effortlessly over that place inside of him repeatedly and Reek wonder if this is perhaps the spot his master had enjoyed his Reek touching that one night.

“Look at him panting, is he supposed to do that? Damon, what the fuck are you doing? Should we be taking notes?” Sour Alyn sneers cruelly, pointing crudely at Reek’s shaking form.

There is more laughter and Reek hates himself for being so disgusting.

He tells himself to be quiet, be good, loyal Reek. His eyes search for Ramsay, looking for his master. He needs to know that he has been good, that no more pain and humiliation will come after this act, this horrible and embarrassing deed.

Ramsay is slouched in his chair, legs spread, chin in hand. When Reek finds his master’s eyes though, the air dies in his lungs.

There’s something there, something in the arctic winter of those intense eyes. Those eyes that haunt Reek’s nightmares. Reek sees that the cruel grin on Ramsay’s face is frozen, as if it has died in place. It’s then that Reek knows, he knows that something his Master did not intend has occurred.

That grin nearly slips entirely, sadistic amusement fading into something different and Reek doesn’t understand.

He doesn’t understand what he’s done wrong. He’s serving his master’s man as ordered; is he not doing it right? Good Reek, loyal Reek, he only tries to please…

_Please, don’t take another piece of unworthy Reek, disgusting, loathsome Reek._

Quivering with a mix of fear and the unwanted pleasure that Damon is drawing from his body, Reek reaches a shaking hand forward towards Ramsay’s direction. “Master, please…”

The icy smile doesn’t shift and danger sings in those cold eyes. His voice is low, gravelly. “Please what, Reek?”

A thousand words race through Reek’s mind as he scrambles to place his feelings into words. It’s hard to explain. _Please, forgive Reek. Don’t be mad at Reek. Reek did as asked. Let Reek fix this. Don’t flay me, master._

Instead of speaking aloud, Reek closes his eyes against the rising storm inside of him, tries to block out the sound of Damon behind him, tries to not feel the building ache as Damon unwittingly touches someplace inside of Reek that feels exquisite. Damon may not be doing it on purpose, but he does not change his rhythm, he isn’t jerky, nor is he too rough and it appears that is all Reek needs for this to become another nightmare for him to dwell on.

He opens his eyes again to find his master, his master who is now crouching a few feet in front of him. His heart jumps at the sight of him, those eyes, those capable hands. Reek’s mouth shapes the words, _I’m sorry, master._ Perhaps he actually says them quietly, so silently.

No one else hears him say it, but Ramsay does, _he understands_ , and his pupils constrict with fury. “Reek,” he hisses, face going red, “Don’t you dare, you’re not allowed-”

It’s too late though.

With a groan of misery, Reek feels something trickle out of him, something that drips and pitters onto the floor beneath him. It would have felt like pure heaven if he didn’t already know what sort of hell he has plunged himself into. Ramsay’s head jerks back as if struck, all pretense of amusement long gone.

“Holy shit,” Skinner rasps, eyes wide.

Damon empties himself into Reek with a loud groan, laughing towards the end of it, completely oblivious. “That was better than I thought it would be. Fuck. Needed that! No wonder you keep this thing around, Ramsay.”

He blinks. “What the hell are all of you staring at?” Damon looks down at where Reek has collapsed miserably and rolls him over. “Oh. Is that? How is that possible?”

Reek curls into a ball, whimpering wretchedly.

Ramsay wraps his fingers in Reek’s sweaty hair, tight and painful. Reek wails slightly, afraid his hair will come out in chunks. “Reek. Straighten yourself up and get out of here.”

Whimpering, Reek stares up at his lord. “Master, please…what…how…”

Ramsay’s nostrils flare and Reek withers under his expression. “I said leave. Now.”

Bones and joints aching, Reek scrambles to pull up his loose rags, tie them around his thin waist. He scurries out of the room, flees to the kennels, away from laughing eyes.

Away from his master’s wrath, a wrath he doesn’t understand.

What game has Reek failed now?  
  


* * *

 

He doesn’t see his master for days and Reek feels the absence like a physical ache. What use is Reek if his master has no need of him? What is his purpose? Will his life become forfeit? Will someone just put him down like a horse that’s gone lame?

Reek continues to do his usual chores, though he avoids his master’s chambers like the plague. He has enough sense to know that his presence is unwelcome, as he has not been summoned for some time.

A fortnight passes, but Reek is not killed nor is he tortured. He is forgotten. Until-

“There you are.” Skinner is leaning against the doorway, staring down at Reek as he cleans the dog kennels. “Ramsay is looking for you. In his chambers.”

Reek nearly dies at the words. It has been so long; he has not been useful and needed by his lord for many days. Perhaps he has forgiven Reek? Stupid, faithless Reek? Or perhaps he has decided he will punish Reek for what filthy Reek did? For how he humiliated his master in front of his men by being a whore?

“His…his chambers?”

Skinner spits. “Yes, Reek. Go. I wouldn’t keep him waiting, if I were you.”

Reek does not waste time scrambling to his master’s tower, to his chambers. His heart pounds with each step, terrified of what he will find when he sees his master again. Punishment? Or forgiveness? Or, better yet, perhaps his master has forgotten about the whole thing.

He knocks on the ominous door, but receives no answer. Reek stares and wonders, saliva building in his mouth. Does he just enter? He swallows sharply, razorblades in his chest. He never enters his master’s room without permission, but he will this once.

The door swings open slowly as Reek pushes it, peers inside with wide eyes.

Ramsay is sitting beside his desk, skinning an apple with slow precision. He does not look up as Reek enters. That is fine, Reek can wait. He will wait forever if he needs to. He stands and stands, watching the knife, watching his extremely still lord. He shuts the door behind himself for good measure.

When Ramsay finally speaks, Reek almost shudders at the sound of his voice, cutting through the silence. He’s almost missed this voice, from where he’s been alone in the dark.

“I want you to listen, Reek, because I’m only going to speak of this once. Are you listening?”

Reek nods violently. “Y..yes, m’lord. I’m always listening.”

His master pauses with his knife just under the skin of the apple, his gaze finally slitting over to his creature. A short, bitten off scoff escapes his lips even as the corner of his mouth lifts slightly at Reek’s rushed words.

With slow elegance, his master resumes skinning the fruit. “I know you’ve never owned anything in your life, Reek, so this may be hard for you to understand. But I want you to try. Can you do that for me?”

“Of…of course, m’lord!” When Reek used to be that other person that he isn’t, he had owned things. Nice clothes. Bows. Horses. He can understand a bit, if he tries, because Reek owns nothing.

The lord sits in his chair and does not look at his creature as he continues to speak slowly, tasting his own words. “Sometimes, when someone owns something, something they are proud of, they want everyone to see. It’s foolish, really. It’s a boast.”

Reek nods as if he understands. He doesn’t.

“Sometimes, Reek, you might share something you own, because it doesn’t affect you to share it. At least, that’s what you think until you see what’s yours in someone else’s hands. Suddenly, your idea to share doesn’t seem like such a good idea after all.”

His master is still not looking at him and Reek is beginning to feel anxious. He’s done something wrong, it’s why his master hasn’t called for him in so long. It’s why he left him to rot in the kennels all alone with no purpose aside from taking care of his bitches and cleaning.

“Then,” a light sneer enters Ramsay’s voice, “ _inexplicably_ , what belongs to you appears to favor that small, insignificant moment out of your hands. Which, isn’t right, because it _belongs_ to you and suddenly it occurs to you that perhaps what is yours isn’t for sharing after all. Perhaps you just want. What. Is. Yours…to be yours. Only.”

Oh. Reek sees. Maybe. His master turns his face to look at Reek and Reek sees disgust and dismay there. For once though, it does not appear to be directed at Reek. It makes Reek’s heart wither, because he doesn’t like to see this expression on his master’s face, his master should never feel that way about himself.

Reek tumbles to the floor and crawls to his master, under the heavy weight of those predator eyes. His knees ache against the cold stone floor, but Reek is loyal and crawls anyway, crawls until he can press his face against the calf of his master’s boot. He half expects his master to kick him for touching him without being asked to, but Ramsay does nothing but sigh.

Nuzzling into the leather, Reek whispers, “I’m sorry, master.”

His master’s gloved hand finds its way into Reek’s hair, carting through it slowly.

Somehow, Theon finds that despite all the missing pieces, the torture, the pain and misery, he’s having the last laugh. But he’ll keep that private of course. Reek will keep his dirty mouth shut. His lord doesn’t like to be made a fool of.

Ramsay grips his chin bruisingly hard and his icy eyes hold Reek’s. “Then, get on the bed. Remove your rags. We’ll see if you’ve learned your lesson or not.”

Reek does as he is commanded.

He’ll never forget the way his master sounds when he’s buried deep inside, fingers feather light on Reek’s scar tissue. The slight rolls of his hips, the tone of his voice as he whispers _just a little more, you can do it, Reek, spill your little cum for me, I want you to, on my fingers while I fill your fuckhole…_

It takes what feels like an eternity, but eventually Ramsay gets Reek to fall over the edge, the kind that leaves Reek shaking, panting and ashamed of his own body. Ramsay comes to rest on the sweaty sheets beside him when it’s over, when both their bodies are sated, a fine sheen of sweat on his skin.

His eyes are like knives as they run over Reek’s trembling form. His fingers are covered in Reek’s seed, and he presses those fingers into Reek, to mix with his own leavings inside. “You don’t deserve me, you know.” Ramsay’s face is flushed and despite the demeaning words, there is no cruelty in his tone. He lies on his back, his midnight hair a small halo around his head.

_That’s the problem,_ Reek thinks _._ He remembers the faces of the innocent farm boys he killed, remembers how he betrayed the only family who ever showed him love. He remembers all his misdeeds in painful clarity. _I do deserve you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments always make my day shine bright- I love hearing your thoughts.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are loved. You all are my fuel XP
> 
> Seriously- I love feedback from you guys. It's what keeps me writing.


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